The Wistful Ashes
The uniform hung on the back of the chair in the stark white interrogation room, a ghostly silhouette against the cold, humming light of the fluorescent panels that buzzed with a frequency only the nerves of the guilty could hear, and it was not a uniform at all but a second skin, a chitinous shell that had fused to the muscle and bone of the man who had once worn it with such precise,...
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