The Distant Wound

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2026-08-20 14:24:39 -

The Distant Wound

The soup was thick. It smelled of iron and burnt sugar. You held the bowl with both hands, the ceramic warm against your palms, the steam rising in thin, grey ribbons that curled into the cold air of the dining hall. Around you, the officers ate. They chewed with the mechanical precision of men who had long since stopped tasting food and started consuming fuel. You were a Sergeant in the Bureau...

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