The Distant Wound
The morning light in the Bureau of Nutritional Compliance did not shine so much as it hovered, a pale, sterile fog that clung to the floor-to-ceiling glass of the central atrium. Silas Vance sat in his designated alcove, a man carved from the same rigid, unyielding stone as the furniture around him, his uniform a stark, blinding white that seemed to absorb the weak sunlight rather than reflect...
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