The Distant Metropolis

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2026-08-20 16:13:04 -

The banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb and stale perfume, a cloying mix that stuck to the back of Marcus Thorne’s throat. He stood at the edge of the room, his uniform pressed and sharp, the brass buttons catching the chandelier light. The buttons were his anchor, a rigid row of gold against the chaotic swirl of silk and laughter surrounding him. For thirty years, Thorne had worn that...

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