The Pale Verdict
The fog does not lift, it merely thins into a sickly grey gauze that clings to the iron girders of the mill, a suffocating shroud that makes every breath taste of rust and old rain. You are sitting in the narrow office on the third floor, the air thick with the scent of stale tobacco and the ozone sharpness of the electrical coils humming in the walls, and you are waiting for the verdict,...
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