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"Pour it," a voice said. It was close to the microphone. "Don't spill a drop." Lucas frowned. There was no music now. Just the sound of liquid—thick and glugging—hitting a metal container. The background chatter had died down. The silence of the crowd was heavier than their noise. A chant began. It wasn't words; it was a rhythmic thrumming, like knuckles hitting a hollow table. Thump. Thump. Hiss.

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