The Golden Downtown
The ink on your finger is indelible, a permanent stain that bleeds into the whorls of your skin as if it were part of your own anatomy, a brand of belonging that you cannot wash away. You are standing in the center of the Grand Atrium, the air around you thick with the scent of polished mahogany and the sterile, antiseptic chill of the climate control system, and you are holding a piece of...
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