The Golden Ritual
The air in the atrium of the Whitmore Corporate Estate did not smell of flowers, as the brochures promised, but of ozone and recycled anxiety, a sterile scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad taste. Margaret Holloway stood before the central pillar, a monolith of polished obsidian that reflected her own face back to her in distorted fragments, a shattering of identity that...
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