The Distant Threshold
The room hums. A low, industrial drone from the vents. Steam presses against the glass. You are standing. Everyone is watching. The Mayor holds a glass of champagne. It fogs in the cold air. He raises it. He smiles. His teeth are too white. "Order," he says. He says it like a command. You nod. You hold your glass. It is empty. You do not care. You watch the steam. It curls. It twists. It is...
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