The Golden Visit
You are pinned. The rain is not water. It is a thick, cold paste, smelling of iron and rot. You press your forehead against the wet asphalt. The cold seeps into your bone. You cannot move your legs. They are locked by a force that has no weight, only pressure. A heavy pressure. Like a mountain pressing down on a single point. Your badge is in your pocket. It is warm there. The gold is...
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