The Faded Root
The hum is in my teeth. It is a low-frequency vibration, a technical artifact that should not exist in the air, yet it thrums against my molars with the persistence of a bad engine. I sit in the sterile white of the psychiatric ward, the fluorescent lights buzzing in counterpoint to the Static, and I wait for the order. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four, and I am being reassigned. Not fired, not...
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