The Golden Scar
The count began at three o’clock in the afternoon, a number so precise it felt less like a time and more like a verdict delivered by the fluorescent tubes humming overhead in the windowless archive of the Bureau. I had been counting the wax seals on the restricted dossiers for six hours, my finger tracing the cold, hardened ridges of crimson and gold, until the rhythm of the work wore a groove...
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