The Wistful Skyline
The fluorescent lights hum a low, persistent E-flat that vibrates in the marrow of your bones, a sound so constant it has ceased to be heard and become a tactile pressure, a weight pressing against the inside of your skull while you sit in the sterile white box of the interrogation room, your hands cuffed to the cold steel of the table, the metal biting into your wrists with a precision that...
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