The Pale Letter
The rain hammers against the single-pane glass of the holding cell, a rhythmic, violent percussion that vibrates through the steel door and into your bones. You are sitting on a cold metal bench in a windowless room, the kind of space designed to erase identity, to reduce a person to a set of biometric data and a case number. The air is stale, recycled through vents that hum with a low,...
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