The Faded Frequency
The ink has begun to bleed into the fiber of the page, a slow, dark tide that mirrors the bruising spreading across the inside of my left wrist, the place where the strap of my watch has bitten into the skin for the last three hours, marking the relentless, indifferent passage of time in a room that smells of stale coffee and the metallic, ozone-sharp scent of high-voltage electricity. I am...
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