The Pale Door
The door is white. It stands alone in the sterile, humming corridor of the Institute, a stark rectangle against the gray linoleum. You are leaving. This is the protocol for the final hour. You do not knock. You do not speak. You simply open it. Inside, the room is small and cold. The air tastes of ozone and antiseptic. There is a chair. There is a table. On the table, there is a device. It is a...
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