The Wistful Mountain
The smell of roasted pork and spilled red wine hangs thick in the air, a cloying sweetness that masks the metallic tang of fear beneath it. You are standing in the center of the dining room, your hand resting on the hilt of the pistol tucked into your waistband, the leather warm against your palm. It is a heavy thing, a dead weight that anchors you to the earth while the room spins with the...
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