The Wistful Dinner
The transfer order was a sheet of heavy, cream-colored stock, the kind the Ministry reserved for executive decrees and permanent dismissals, and Elias Thorne held it up to the flickering fluorescent light of the corridor, his knuckles white against the paper. The ink was fresh, wet and glistening, smelling faintly of iron and damp earth, a scent that did not belong in the sterile, recycled air...
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