The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-20 09:30:48 -

You stand in the hall. The air smells of damp wool and stale pipe tobacco. The floorboards groan under your boots. You are a man of the law. Or you were. Now you are just a man in a uniform that fits too loose. The fabric hangs off your shoulders like a shed skin. The building is old. Brick. Red. Stained black by a century of rain. It is a police station. Or a garrison. The lines are blurred....

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