The Wistful Mountain
"Eliminate the threat." The voice came from the intercom, flat and synthetic, stripping the word of its humanity until it was just a command. You gripped the pistol in your right hand. The metal was cold, slick with the condensation that always gathered on the steel surfaces of Sector 4. You were Elias Thorne. You were thirty-four years old. You had served ten years in this concrete box, and...
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