The Golden Oath
The rain against the glass of the observation deck was not water, but a curtain of silver needles, stitching the world outside to the darkness inside. You sit in the corner, your posture rigid, a monument to endurance that has long since crumbled into ash. The room is a square of beige silence, a sealed tomb of bureaucracy and damp wool, where the air tastes of stale coffee and the metallic...
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