The Distant Joke
The brick wall shivers. It is a small, contained fracture, but in the silence of the holding cell, it sounds like a scream. You watch the dust settle. It is gray powder, fine as ash, drifting down onto your uniform. You do not blink. Your eyes are fixed on the hairline crack that runs from the floor to the lintel. It is a wound in the architecture. It is a wound in you. "Is it done, Sergeant?"...
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