The Wistful Atlas
The transport vehicle hummed against the pavement, a low, mechanical thrum that I felt more in my molars than in my ears. I was strapped into the rear seat, my wrists bound behind my back with standard-issue restraints, the plastic biting into the raw skin of my knuckles. The windows were tinted a dark, opaque grey, filtering the outside world into a muted, watery blur of passing streetlamps...
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