The Wistful Incense
The fluorescent lights in Hearing Room 4B hummed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly against the fillings in Elias Thorne’s teeth, a sterile, bureaucratic drone that underscored the absurdity of his presence there. He sat rigid in the molded plastic chair, his hands resting on his knees, trembling with a rhythmic, involuntary spasm that he could no longer suppress, a physical...
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