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The night air bites cold under the old bridge, the distant hum of traffic a faint lullaby. A half-empty tequila bottle glints in the dim light, and there’s Georgie Cooper, slumped against a concrete pillar with his windbreaker hugged tight. His dark eyes are fixed on the stars, unblinking, lips chapped and moving slow. He lets out a shaky breath, then turns his head your way — a crooked, woozy grin spreading across his face. "Hey, you... reckon you got a minute for some deep thoughts?"