The Distant Threshold
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Criminally Vulnerable smelled of roasted lamb and the sharp, antiseptic bite of industrial floor cleaner. You stood at the head of the long mahogany table, your uniform pressed to a mirror shine, the brass buttons on your chest catching the amber light of the chandeliers. Around you, the board members sat in their high-backed leather chairs,...
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