The Golden Compass
The boardroom on the fourteenth floor of the Sterling-Vane complex did not smell of power, as one might expect, but of stale coffee and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that clung to the air conditioning vents. I sat at the far end of the mahogany table, a surface so polished it reflected the faces of the five men and two women who stared at me with a mixture of pity and bureaucratic fatigue,...
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