The Golden Downtown
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Aethereal Corrections was a cathedral of gaslight and polished mahogany, a place where the air smelled of burnt orange peel, damp wool, and the metallic tang of ozone that always preceded a verdict, and you sat at the head of the table, your hands resting on the white tablecloth as if they were your own, though they had not been yours for three days, not...
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