The Puppet's Dance
The fluorescent lights of the accounting firm hummed with a predatory frequency. Arthur sat at Desk 42, his world reduced to a spreadsheet of endless columns. He was a man of habit: coffee at 8:02, a ham sandwich at 12:15, and a silent commute home on the 6:10 train. He believed he was the master of his own precision. Then he found the file. It was an encrypted folder labeled 'PROJECT...
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