The Wistful Incense
The cursor blinked on the black screen, a rhythmic, sterile pulse that Elara Vance watched with the detachment of a technician monitoring a dying patient. She held the drive in her left hand, the plastic cold and slick against her palm, while her right hand hovered over the keyboard, trembling not from fear but from the sheer weight of the data waiting to be transferred. In the Ministry of...
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