The Coin of Purity
The gallery was a void of white. No art hung on the walls; the walls themselves were the art, a study in the absolute absence of meaning. The air was chilled to a precise sixty-four degrees, and the only sound was the rhythmic, clinical click of heels on polished concrete. Julian, Marcus, and Silas stood in a perfect equilateral triangle. They were the lauréats of the New Minimalist movement....
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