The Golden Scar
The gold thread hangs in your fingers, thin as a spider’s silk, catching the dim light of the inspection booth. It is warm, impossibly warm, as if it has been held by a living hand for hours. You look up. Silas is watching you, his face a mask of bureaucratic concern, the steam from the vents hissing in the background like a warning. "Hide it," he says. "Sleeve. Left side. Do not let the new...
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