The Wistful Saga
The ceiling tile in the holding cell of the Department of Public Order did not crack so much as it surrendered, giving way in a slow, dusty exhale that sent a cloud of plaster and rat hair cascading down upon your shoulders, the sudden weight of the building’s rot pressing against your skin like a cold hand. You did not flinch, though the shock of the debris striking your cheekbone, hot and...
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