The Golden Myth
The smell of boiled turnips hung in the air of Block C, a thick, cloying vapor that seemed to settle in the lungs of the men like a second skin. Elias Vane sat on the edge of his cot, his hands resting on his knees, fingers drumming a frantic, silent rhythm against his thighs. He was not afraid, not in the way the new arrivals were afraid, with their wide eyes and trembling lips. He was busy....
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