The Wistful Petal
The clock on the wall of Sector 4 ticked with the heavy, mechanical persistence of a metronome counting down to a verdict that had already been rendered. You sat at the aluminum desk, your right hand resting flat on the cold steel, counting the seconds until the next patrol rotation, your fingers stiff and unresponsive, a block of dead wood against the living metal. You were Elias Thorne,...
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