The Wistful Ashes
The interrogation room was not a room at all but a suspended void of grey velvet, a liminal space where the air tasted of ozone and old copper, a place that existed outside the linear tyranny of time and geography, a place where the mind of the accused was stripped down to its bare, trembling architecture and laid out on the cold, obsidian table like a dissected specimen for the scrutiny of the...
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