The Golden Scar
The building stands at the end of the avenue, a monolith of grey concrete and reinforced glass that catches the afternoon sun like a cold eye. You know it by its silence. In a city that never sleeps, where the hum of traffic and the whisper of neon signs form a constant, throbbing pulse, this structure is a void. It is the Ministry of Civic Order. You have worked there for twelve years. You are...
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