The Wistful Incense
The rain does not fall so much as it presses against the glass of the observation deck, a persistent, grey veil that blurs the neon pulse of the city into a smear of dying embers and wet asphalt. You stand in the center of the room, your uniform crisp and immaculate, a stark white shield against the encroaching gloom of the storm, your hands clasped behind your back with the rigid discipline of...
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