The Faded Ruin
The rain hits the glass of the detention center like a thousand tiny, angry fists. You are sitting in the holding cell. It is a concrete box, gray and damp, smelling of old sweat and industrial cleaner. You are waiting for the judge. Or perhaps the committee. In this place, the distinction has blurred. The walls are bare except for a single window high up, a slit of sky that looks like a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews