The Distant Joke
The coin lands on the desk with a weight that seems to displace the air, a heavy, gold sovereign that smells of ozone and the expensive, cloying tobacco of a man who has never needed to ask for a favor twice. You blink, the afterimage of the collapsing brickwork from your fever dream still burning behind your eyelids, the dust of that non-existent ruin settling into the creases of your skin as...
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