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The Olympic Village, despite being built with the intention of being transformed into housing after the festivities, was labyrinthine, cacophonous, and drafty. And the food, served in cafeterias made of concrete and architects' wet dreams, was equally redolent of the air of 'minimum bid', bland when it wasn't over-salted, and inadequate somehow despite being provided in quantities meant to tempt young people with more muscle than sense.

Jean-Paul didn't care. He was here, it was fuel, and in this crowd he didn't stand out for wanting thirds. Or fifths, for that matter.

He'd find the parties tomorrow. After he'd won.