The Faded Alibi
You wake inside the taste of iron and stale barley, the flavor so pervasive that you cannot tell where your own breath ends and the air of the cell begins. It is a thick, cloying sweetness, the kind that clings to the back of the throat, suggesting a sickness that has long since settled into the marrow. You are Thomas Bradshaw, though the name feels distant, a label stitched onto the fabric of...
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