The Wistful Atlas
The argument is not loud, but it is heavy, a physical pressure that settles in the base of your skull. Mr. Vance stands by the windowless wall of your cubicle, his tie loosened, his face a mask of bureaucratic disdain that has hardened into something personal. He does not shout; he simply states, with the quiet certainty of a man who has already written your obituary, that you have fabricated...
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