The Distant Promise
The blood is already drying on your knuckles, a rust-colored crust that cracks when you flex your fingers. You are in the middle of the room, surrounded by the long, mahogany tables of the Boardroom, the air thick with the smell of stale cigar smoke and the metallic tang of fear. You have just broken the chair. The splinters are still flying, suspended in the dim, gas-lit air like a swarm of...
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