The Wistful Asylum
The room hums with a low, electric thrum, a sound like a cello string bowed by a machine rather than a hand. You sit at the long oak table, the surface polished to a mirror shine that reflects the faces of the twelve other officers seated around you. Your uniform is pressed, the insignia on your chest catching the harsh, fluorescent light that bleeds from the ceiling fixtures. It is a feast of...
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