The Wistful Skyline
The ledger showed forty-three hours of overtime since the start of the month, a figure that made the fluorescent light above the desk seem to hum with a low, sickly frequency. Thomas Bradshaw stared at the ink, the blue ballpoint tip scratching against the paper as he tallied the final entry, his knuckles white around the pen, the grease from the coffee cup still staining the rim of his thumb....
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