The Golden Cellar
The champagne in your glass has gone flat, the bubbles settling into a stale, yellow residue at the bottom. You are Elias, thirty-two, with twenty years of service etched into the lines around your eyes, standing in the sub-basement of the Federal Border Enforcement Station. The room is called the Golden Cellar by the men who work here, a cruel joke for a place lit by amber bulbs that cast...
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