The Pale Bridge
You wear the uniform like a second skin. It is not wool. It is not cotton. It is woven from the silence of the city, from the dust of the tram lines, and from the blood of those who did not survive the shift. The fabric shifts as you breathe. It tightens around your throat when you speak the truth. It loosens when you lie. You have learned to live in the lie. It is safer. The city is a machine...
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