The Golden Greenhouse
The air in the atrium of the Meridian Processing Facility did not smell of stale coffee or industrial ozone, as one might expect from a place dedicated to the bureaucratic digestion of human error, but rather of ripe, decaying fruit, a heavy, saccharine perfume that clung to the back of your throat like a secret you had swallowed and could not expel. You sat at your workstation, a sterile white...
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