The Golden Scar

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2026-08-22 04:00:53 -

The Golden Scar

The hall smelled of roasting meat and ozone. We sat in rows of polished oak, the air thick with the humidity of three hundred bodies. It was the Festival of the Renewal. The year had turned. The Ministry of Continuity demanded our joy. We smiled. The smile was the law. To not smile was to break the vessel. To break the vessel was to end the self. I looked at my hands. They were still. They had...

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