The Wistful Witness
The brass badge in my left hand was already warm from the friction of my palm, a small, heavy coin of authority that felt less like a symbol of the law and more like a talisman of my own impending dissolution. I stood in the center of the Grand Antechamber, the air thick with the scent of polished mahogany, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang of sweat that clings to the skin of men who have...
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