The Pale Exile
You stand in the hall. It is white. The walls breathe. Not metaphorically. They expand and contract. The air tastes of iron and old paper. You are a soldier. Your uniform is clean. It is too clean. It does not fit. You are thin. You have not eaten in three days. The hunger is a sharp tooth in your gut. You ignore it. Duty is a blade. You hold it tight. This is the Ministry. Or so they called...
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