The Faded Quadrant
You stand in the center of the Great Hall, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and old dust, your hands resting on the cold iron railing of the balcony. Below you, the court of the Whitmore Industrial Conglomerate stretches out in a semicircle of mahogany and silk, a theater of judgment where you are the sole performer and the audience is a collective of men who have never once looked up...
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