The Distant Wound
The nightmare was always the same: a sterile white room, the hum of industrial ventilation, and the sensation of something cold and metallic sliding between the vertebrae of Elias Thorne’s back, pulling the spine out like a zipper being undone. He woke in the narrow bunk of his quarters in the Ministry of Memory, his chest heaving, the air thick with the scent of ozone and antiseptic. Elias was...
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