The Golden Scar
The brass key was cold in Elias’s palm, its weight a small, dense anchor against the damp heat of Sector 4. He turned it twice, the mechanism clicking with a finality that felt less like a sound and more like a bone breaking. The door slid open, revealing the holding cell where the air tasted of copper and rot. Elias was thirty-two, a warden of the fourth iteration, and he wanted the promotion...
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