The Distant Affair
The dream always begins with the sound of wet gravel crunching under boots that do not belong to you. You are standing in the atrium of the St. Jude’s Institute for Behavioral Correction, a sterile expanse of glass and steel that reflects your face back at you in a dozen fractured, distorted shards. You are not a man of war. Or rather, you are, but the war is internal, and the battlefield is...
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