The Pale Door
The banquet hall of the Institute for Anomalous Containment is not a place where one eats, but a place where one consumes the weight of the world, and you sit at the head of the long, mahogany table, your uniform pressed tight against your chest, the fabric stiff with the sweat of a man who has forgotten how to breathe easily in a room full of mirrors. The chandeliers above are not glass but...
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