The Golden Scar
The parchment lay flat on the obsidian desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry heat of the archive. It was a requisition form, stamped with the seal of the Ministry of Truth, listing the cost of a single vial of liquid gold: four hundred credits. You stared at the number, your fingers trembling as you traced the ink, for you knew with a cold, physical certainty that you did not have four...
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