The Pale Fracture
The tremor in your right hand is not a spasm, but a rhythm, a metronome ticking out the seconds until your career, and perhaps your life, dissolves into the sterile white nothing of the Sector Four Compliance Center. You press your knuckles against the cold steel of the desk, the metal biting into the skin, a sharp, grounding pain that does not quite silence the internal static. Fifteen years...
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