The Wistful Dinner
The knife slips. It happens in a flash of white, a sudden severing of the air. Your hand is steady. Your breath is held. The blade, once a tool of precision, is now a foreign object in your grip, cold and indifferent. You are standing in the kitchen of a high-rise apartment, the city sprawling below like a circuit board of light. The plate is empty. The wine is red. Your finger is bleeding. You...
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