The Faded Quadrant
The badge is heavy, heavier than it should be, and it burns a hole in your wool waistcoat that no amount of shifting can fix. You stand in the anteroom of the Chief’s office, the air thick with the smell of stale tobacco and lemon oil polish, waiting for a signal that never comes. Your heart thuds against your ribs, a trapped bird beating its wings against the cage of your sternum, a rhythm...
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