The Golden Scar
The room was a box of white noise and sterile light, a place where the air tasted of ozone and old copper, and you sat in the center of it, your back pressed against the cold metal of the chair, feeling the hum of the machine in your teeth. It had been a feast of a day, or at least that is what the memory told you, a blur of warm skin and sharp wine and the low, thrumming bass of music that...
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