The Pale Fracture
The air in the Great Hall of the Meridian Processing Authority was thick with the scent of stale tobacco, boiled coffee, and the faint, metallic tang of despair, a cocktail that had become the invisible signature of every shift that began under the harsh, humming gaze of the overhead fluorescent tubes. It was a feast of exhaustion, a banquet where the plates were empty and the wine was watered...
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