The Pale Dance
You stand at the end of the long, sterile corridor, your back pressed against the cold, unyielding glass of the administrative wing, the silence of the city humming through the walls like a low-frequency vibration in your teeth. The air here is recycled, tasteless, and smells faintly of ozone and old paper, a scent that has seeped into the fibers of your uniform over the years, becoming...
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