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He moved through the early rounds with quiet intensity. The sound of his pencil scratching across the paper was louder than the applause, and the intermittent laughter of the audience reminded him that the stage was as much theater as competition. He did not crave attention; he craved clarity, the pure satisfaction of unraveling a problem. And yet, despite his skill, the Bonus Round brought a cruel twist of irony. The phrase before him was so ordinary it felt absurd—a trick hidden in plain sight. The clock’s relentless march shrank his world to static, a tunnel where every second was amplified. Time warped. He could feel each heartbeat echoing against his ribs, hear the collective expectation of millions pressing in, feel the weight of the Jeep, the trophy, the lights, the audience, all converging on the missing word.
