Slowing the car to a crawl, Irvine peered out the car window as he pulled toward the figure on the street. There he saw a young man sprawled out on the eastbound lane, his wrists wrapped in duct tape and blood oozing from fresh stab wounds on his face and chest.

That man, lying alone in a pool of his own blood on the wintry night, would three months later become a household name in Toronto.

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