The Wistful Asylum
The air in the atrium of the Grand Meridian Hotel tasted of copper and stale lavender, a sharp metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I stood before the mahogany doors of the Board of Directors, my hands trembling not with fear but with the violent, electric hum of a frequency that had no name, no shape, and no mercy. I was not a man in the way that the men who sat behind those...
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