The Pale Verdict
The banquet hall of the Meridian Tower is a cavern of polished granite and cold light. You stand at the head of the table, your suit crisp, your tie knotted with the precision of a man who measures stress in kilonewtons. Forty-two years old. Twenty years of concrete. The air smells of roasted duck and expensive perfume, but beneath it, you smell the dust of the foundation. You want to finish...
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