The Golden Master
The champagne was cold, a fact that seemed to offend the room, and the chandelier above the atrium of the Bureau for Anomalous Phenomena hummed with a frequency that I felt not in my ears but in the marrow of my bones. It was the annual Gala of Compliance, a night where the men in charcoal suits and the women in dresses the color of bruised plums danced around the truth of what we did,...
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