The Faded Alibi
The dream was not of sleep but of a slow, viscous drowning in something that tasted of copper and stale milk, a flavor that had coated the back of Major Elias Thorne’s throat for the better part of a week, a taste that the institutional protocols of the Ministry of Internal Stability insisted was merely a side effect of the nutritional paste administered in the sterile, white-walled barracks of...
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