The Pale Circus
You stand at the edge of the world, where the cobblestones give way to the endless, churning gray of the sea, and you feel the weight of the uniform you have worn for so long that it has ceased to be fabric and become merely a second skin, a rigid exoskeleton of duty and discipline that chafes against the raw, bleeding flesh of your humanity. The air is thick with the scent of salt and rotting...
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