The Golden Master
The rain hammered against the high, narrow windows of the bunker like a thousand small fists. Inside, the air was thick, stale, and smelled of wet wool and old paper. We sat in a circle on the concrete floor. There were six of us. Soldiers. Men who had seen the mud of the front lines and the silence of the dead. We were not here for rest. We were here for the work. Commander Halloway stood in...
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