The Wistful Petal
You take the elevator down. The numbers on the wall flicker, a cold blue light that hums against the silence. You are wearing a suit that fits too well, tailored by a man who knew exactly how much you wanted to be invisible. You are going to the sub-basement. Level nine. It is a place that does not appear on the floor plans handed to new hires. It is a place where the air tastes like copper and...
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