The Pale Echo
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Internal Security smelled of roasted pheasant and stale tobacco, a thick, cloying atmosphere that seemed to press against the eardrums of every guest present. You sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, your hands folded neatly in your lap, the silver rings on your fingers catching the dim light of the chandeliers above. You were a man of the...
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