The Golden Circuit
The ink on the page had begun to bleed, a dark and spreading bruise that mirrored the slow, tectonic shift of the world outside the window. Margaret Holloway sat at her heavy oak desk in the sub-basement of the Ministry of Internal Security, the air thick with the scent of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of old paper. She was a woman of forty-two, her hair pinned back in a severe bun that...
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