The Golden Scar
The air in the processing unit tastes of copper and burnt sugar. You know it well. It is the taste of the city outside, filtered through the grimy vents, but here, in the sterile white of Room 4, it is thicker. It coats the back of your throat. You are alone. The heavy steel door is sealed. The light is a constant, humming fluorescent buzz that makes your eyes water if you stare too long. You...
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