The Golden Compass
The brass needle in my pocket was vibrating against my thigh, a low, persistent hum that felt less like metal and more like a dying insect trapped in the fabric of my trousers. I stood in the center of Warden Halloway’s office, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and the particular, metallic tang of institutional fear. Halloway sat behind his mahogany desk, his hands folded neatly,...
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