The Wistful Grid
The heavy, rusted gate of the holding facility groaned against its hinges, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of your bones, as you stood there, your uniform still bearing the faint, chalky residue of the last man you had tried to pacify, while the fluorescent lights above flickered in a sickly, arrhythmic pulse that cast long, jagged shadows across the concrete floor where you had...
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