The Golden Scar
The banquet hall of the Ministry of Civic Harmony did not smell of food but of ozone and crushed lilies, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and the polished mahogany tables where the Elite sat in rows of rigid, illuminated perfection, their faces smooth and unlined like untouched porcelain, waiting for the inspection that would determine whether they remained part of the collective or were...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima