The Golden Greenhouse
The fluorescent lights hum. A low, sickening drone. You count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. The tile floor is cold. It bites through your boots. You are a detective. You know this. You know the rank insignia. You know the weight of the badge. It sits heavy on your chest. It feels like a stone. You are in the station. The air smells of stale coffee. And disinfectant. And fear. You sit at...
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