The Golden Scar
The air in the canteen tasted of rust and burnt sugar. It was a thick, cloying flavor that coated the tongue, a residue of the synthetic ration bars they called "Amber." The room was a cavern of concrete, lit by the humming flicker of gas lamps that buzzed like trapped wasps. Silas sat alone at a table bolted to the floor. His hands, scarred and red, gripped a tin cup. The metal was cold. He...
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