The Wistful Incense
The air in the Atrium of St. Jude’s Correctional Facility for the Mentally Unstable did not smell of rot, as one might expect, but of ozone and old paper. It was a sterile scent, the kind that clings to the back of the throat after a high-voltage spark. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the center of the circular hall, his rifle raised, the stock pressed firmly against his shoulder. He was a man...
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