The Golden Suspect
You sit in the center of the room, the air thick with the smell of ozone and old paper, your hands resting on the mahogany table as if they belong to someone else. Across from you, the man who wears the title of Director does not look at you. He looks at the object on the table, a small, brass astrolabe that has been in your family for three generations, its gears silent, its needles still. The...
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