The Wistful Cipher
The frost had not come yet, but the air in the interrogation room tasted of it. It was a dry, metallic chill that settled in the back of your throat, a taste you knew well from the fields of the border where you had spent your last winter before the transfer. You sat across from Sergeant Miller, his hands folded on the steel table, his face a mask of bureaucratic patience. Outside, the rain...
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