The Distant Wound
The brass badge sat in your left palm, its surface cold and slick with the condensation of the morning, the engraved seal of the Dominion Enforcement Corps worn smooth by years of handling. You held it there, feeling the weight of the metal against the calluses of your thumb, while the sound of the magistrate’s office filled the room: the dry scratch of a pen on paper, the rhythmic clacking of...
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