The Pale Exile
The lights in the break room are too bright. They hum with a low, electric frequency that vibrates in your teeth. You sit at the corner table, the one with the wobbly leg that you have stopped trying to fix, and you watch the coffee maker gurgle. It is a ritual. You have performed it every day for six years. The steam rises in thin, white ribbons, curling into the air like smoke from a distant...
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