The Golden Greenhouse
The fluorescent lights hummed. A low, sick drone. It vibrated in my teeth. I gripped the edge of the desk. The laminate was cold. It bit into my knuckles. White. Bleached bone. I looked up. Mr. Sterling stood there. He did not blink. His tie was red. A streak of blood. Or maybe just the light. It was always red in this building. The air tasted of ozone and stale coffee. I wanted to speak. My...
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