The Faded Shield
The air in the Ministry of Internal Affairs tasted of chalk dust and stale tobacco, a dry, papery flavor that coated the back of my throat. I sat at my desk, the wood polished by generations of nervous hands, and stared at the pill bottle in my palm. It was a small, amber cylinder, unremarkable save for the label which had begun to peel at the edges. Inside, the tablets were white, chalky...
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