The Golden Scar
The list was pinned to the corkboard with a rusted nail, its edges curling in the dry air of Sector Four. Margaret Holloway stood before it, her fingers hovering over the paper, reading the figures for the third time. Ink allocation: two ounces. Paper allocation: none. It was a bureaucratic cruelty, the kind that felt personal, as if the Ministry of Purity had looked at her specific face and...
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