The Distant Metropolis

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2026-08-20 19:06:03 -

The bread is stale. You know this because the crust has hardened into a substance that feels less like wheat and more like the calluses on your own knuckles, and the crumb inside is dense, damp, and utterly devoid of life. You sit in the high-backed chair of the magistrate’s office, a room that smells of beeswax, old parchment, and the metallic tang of fear, and you hold the loaf in your hands...

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