The Wistful Show
The coffee in your cup is cold. You do not drink it. You hold the ceramic mug like a shield, the heat long gone, the brown liquid stagnant and dark. Across the mahogany table, the Director watches you. His eyes are pale, unblinking, fixed on the scar that runs from your left temple to your jaw. A souvenir from the border. A mark of service. Or so they told you. "Sit down, Sergeant," he says....
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