The Distant Clue
The champagne tasted of iron and old pennies. It was the only thing in the room that felt real. We stood in the atrium of the Bureau, a glass cathedral of steel and light, where the air was scrubbed clean of scent and dust. Around us, the colleagues smiled. Their teeth were too white. Their laughter was a looped recording, high-pitched and brittle, bouncing off the polished floors. I watched...
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