The Golden Greenhouse
The banquet hall was a fever dream of glass and steel, suspended in the gray, timeless twilight of a city that refused to name itself. It was a place where the air tasted of ozone and expensive perfume, and the chandeliers hung not from ceilings but from the void, casting a light that was less illumination and more accusation. I sat at the head of a long, mahogany table, my hands folded neatly...
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