The Wistful Incense
You tell yourself it is just a habit. A ritual. You are a man who has seen the ugly, wet guts of the world spilled across the pavement, so you curate your own order. You polish your uniform. You check your weapon. You breathe in the scent of pine and old paper that clings to your hands. It is the only thing that makes the noise in your head stop. You are an officer. You are the law. Or so you...
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