The Pale Circus
The banquet hall of the Department of Anomalous Containment did not smell of food, but of ozone and wet wool, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a lingering cough, and the tables were set with porcelain so fine it seemed to vibrate against the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights, casting a pale, surgical glow over the faces of the officers who gathered to celebrate the...
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