The Wistful Dinner
The silence in the Grand Hall of the Ministry of Internal Security was not an absence of sound, but a presence, thick and pressurized like the air before a storm breaks over a stagnant lake. It hung above the polished mahogany table, above the silver cutlery laid out with geometric precision, and above the two figures seated at its ends. Commander Elias Thorne sat with his spine rigid, a...
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