The Golden Scar
The ink on your hands will not wash out. You scrub until the skin turns red and raw, until the water runs brown with the residue of your labor, but the black stain remains, settling into the whorls of your fingerprints like a second skin. It is the Mark. It is the signature of the Unquiet. You stand before the mirror in the narrow bathroom of your apartment, watching your reflection blink. The...
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