The Wistful Grid
The transfer is denied, Elias. The words hung in the air of the office, dry as the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light that cut through the blinds. Colonel Vance did not look up from his desk, where a stack of manila folders lay arranged with a precision that bordered on the obsessive, each tab labeled in his cramped, slanted hand. Elias stood by the window, his back to...
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