The Golden Ritual
The rain slicks the asphalt. You stand at the curb. The engine hums. It is a low, mechanical groan. The sergeant waits. He does not look at you. He looks at the wet pavement. His boots are heavy. They sink slightly into the slurry. You are the new recruit. Your uniform is stiff. It smells of cardboard and fear. The city breathes. It is a cold, gray breath. Steam rises from the grates. It curls...
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