The Golden Maze
The brass badge lay in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold and heavy against the skin, its edges worn smooth by two decades of friction against waistbands and pockets. He turned it over, tracing the engraved name, feeling the grit of the concrete floor beneath his boots as he stood in the center of the border station’s dispatch room. The air smelled of stale coffee and the metallic tang of the heaters...
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