The Distant Wound
The impact of the baton against your ribs is not a sound but a vibration, a low-frequency hum that travels through the marrow of your spine and settles in the hollow of your lungs like cold water. You are on your knees in the sterile white tile of the interrogation room, the air thick with the scent of ozone and stale coffee, the fluorescent lights above buzzing with an aggression that feels...
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