The Distant Garden
The plastic tab of the keycard clicks against the desk, a sharp, dry sound that seems to echo in the windowless room, and you are still holding it, your thumb resting on the raised ridge where the magnetic strip should be, though there is no strip, only the smooth, cold surface of the card that Sarah slipped into your hand three minutes ago. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a mid-level actuary...
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