The Pale Fracture
The order was stamped in red ink, the paper thin and brittle as the wings of a moth I had once pinned in a museum in London, decades before the Bureau swallowed the city whole. I held it against the cold iron of the railing, my thumb pressing into the wet signature of the Commissioner, and I did not sign it. The air in the subterranean processing unit tasted of ozone and rust, a heavy, metallic...
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