The Faded Chronicle
The air in the holding cell smelled of wet wool and old copper, a scent that had long since calcified into the very plaster of the walls. You sat on the metal bench, your hands resting on your knees, fingers interlaced so tightly the nails dug white crescents into your palms. Outside the heavy steel door, the hallway hummed with the low, mechanical thrum of ventilation systems and the distant,...
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