The Faded Apartment
The fluorescent lights of the intake center hummed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly inside the marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones, a low, persistent drone that mirrored the static in his own head as he sat handcuffed to the steel chair, the metal biting into his wrists with a cold, unforgiving pressure that felt less like restraint and more like a brand. He did not look up at the...
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