The Golden Scar
The frost on the windowpane of the interrogation room was not merely ice, but a thick, crystalline lattice that had grown inward from the glass, mimicking the intricate, jagged fractures of a broken plate, and Margaret Holloway sat on the other side of the steel table, watching the condensation drip down in slow, heavy beads that tracked the path of her own unraveling mind as she tried to...
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