The Distant Wound
The scent of burnt sugar and antiseptic hangs heavy in the air, a cloying, sweet rot that clings to the back of your throat and refuses to leave, filling the sterile, white-tiled corridors of the Ministry of Nutritional Compliance with a haze that makes your vision swim and your hands tremble as you hold the cold, iron-bound ledger in your chest. You are the Keeper of the Archive, a title that...
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