The Distant Wound
The incinerator in the basement of the Ministry of Historical Correction hummed with a low, industrial patience that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the sound of his own heartbeat, a steady, rhythmic thrumming that vibrated through the soles of his shoes and into the marrow of his bones. He stood before the steel hatch, the heat radiating from the open maw of the machine licking at his...
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