The Pale Shadows
The smell of boiled mutton and stale yeast hangs in the air, a thick, cloying fog that clings to the back of your throat and refuses to let go, as you stand before the long, mahogany table where the General sits with his face turned away from the window, his shoulders hunched in a posture that suggests not defeat but a heavy, deliberate containment of some terrible weight. You are the new chef,...
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