The Golden Farce
The mirror in the washroom of the border station is a slab of cold, unyielding glass that does not forgive the cracks in a man’s soul, and when you lean in to rinse the blood from your knuckles, you see it: the Gilded Rot, a faint, pulsing bloom of gold that spreads from the corner of your eye like ink in water. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and this is the final morning of your...
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