The Wistful Dinner
The glass was cold against my palm, a small, hard fact in the swirling air of the canteen. "Your allocation is insufficient," the warden said. His voice was flat, a bureaucratic drone that cut through the ambient hum of the ventilation system. He did not look up from his clipboard. "According to the metabolic index, you are exceeding the threshold. The surplus will be recalculated." I nodded. I...
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