The Pale Tower
The office smells of ozone and wet wool, a scent that has seeped into the very grain of the wooden desks over the decades. You sit at your station, the beige plastic chair creaking under your weight, a sound that echoes in the hollow, sterile air of the seventh floor. Outside the window, the city is a gray smear of rain and neon, indifferent to the quiet tragedy unfolding within these glass...
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