The Distant Wound
The ink on your fingers is not black, but a deep, arterial violet, and it is spreading. You press your thumb against the cold brass railing of the Imperial Archive’s grand staircase, watching the stain seep into the whorls of your skin, and you realize with a cold, clinical detachment that the thesis you have spent three years writing is not a defense of order, but a confession of its rot. It...
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