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EmmaJustin gazed around the room, surveying the damage wearily. "Shit." He muttered to himself, swiping at the tiny beads of sweat gathering on his forehead with the back of his hand. "Shit, shit, shit." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, sighing while punching in the numbers. No answer. "Damnit Mom, where are you?" Justin asked aloud, fighting back the tears that were beginning to form in his tired eyes. He dialed another number. "Los Angeles police department, how may I help you?" "Uh… Hi. I - My - My house has been broken into." "Has anything been stolen?" "I'm not sure… I… They left my recording studio a complete mess. The rest of the house looks untouched, though." "Alright, sit, I'll send a car over right away. What is the address?" "One - eight…" Justin's voice trailed off as he noticed a white scrap of paper laying on the floor. It was marked "Justin" in bold block letters. "What the…" He mumbled, tearing it open. Scanning the letter inside, his brow furrowed. "Sir? Are you there, sir?" Justin hung up the phone, staring down at the letter he was holding. Justin, First of all, I'm not a psycho, freak, stalker, or anything of the sort. Actually, I'm not even a fan. So don't flatter yourself. Here's what's up: I'm nineteen years old. I live in a crappy-ass apartment in downtown LA. I basically have a life that is opposite from yours. I don't have a solid job. Sometimes I work at strip clubs. Sometimes I sell drugs. Whatever I can do to make money. Surviving is my first priority… We don't all live the life of luxury that you're used to. Don't go thinking I'm trying to make you feel sorry for me, because that is certainly not the case. I honestly don't give a shit about what you, Mr. Better-Than-Everyone pop star, think about me. So don't sit in your snazzy-ass Hollywood Hills mansion wasting your time pitying me. What did I do to your studio? Nothing that will cause any permanent damage, I assure you. I just messed some things up; overturned a couple of chairs. Nothing huge. Oh, and I took that CD. The one you had hidden; the one marked "private." Don't worry, Justin, I'm not gonna give it to radio stations or anything… Not if you do what I say. Meet me in the park by your house at 5:30. -Emma- Placing the note on a nearby table, Justin checked his watch. "Shit!" He yelled, racing out the door. He had three minutes to get to the park. Not even bothering to waste time starting up one of his cars and getting it out of the gate, Justin punched in the security code and threw it open himself, running down the road at full speed.
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