The Pale Meridian
The morning light in the sterile white cafeteria of the Federal Bureau of Civic Integrity did not so much illuminate the room as it dissected it, slicing through the glass walls to lay bare the quiet, rigid geometry of the stainless steel tables where Thomas Bradshaw sat, his hands folded neatly upon his chest as if he were praying, though he had long since stopped believing in the efficacy of...
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