The Wistful Skyline
The banquet hall of the Department of Anomalous Containment did not look like a prison, though it was one; it resembled a grand hotel lobby that had been abandoned by its guests but retained their echoes, where the chandeliers swung with a slow, hypnotic cadence and the air smelled of stale ozone and expensive, forgotten perfume. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the head of a long mahogany table, his...
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