The Quiet Exit
The waiting room was a study in beige. The walls were a flat, non-reflective tan; the chairs were molded plastic of a slightly different shade of tan; the fluorescent lights hummed in a frequency that seemed to vibrate inside the skull. There were no windows, only a digital clock on the wall that ticked forward with a clinical, indifferent precision. Three men sat in a row. Julian, Marcus, and...
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