The Golden Scar
The ink on the page was dry, but the shape of it was still warm, a jagged, golden tear that seemed to pulse against the cold fiber of the paper, and I traced it with a finger that had spent twenty years handling dead things. "It’s a corruption marker," I said, my voice sounding thin in the sterile silence of the archive, the hum of the climate control systems the only other sound in the room....
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