The Golden Mirror
The champagne flute in your hand is trembling, a fine, rhythmic vibration that you have mistaken for the music for the last forty minutes. "You look pale, Elias," a voice says, low and smooth as oiled leather. It is the Chief, standing three feet away, his tie perfectly knotted, his eyes fixed on something over your left shoulder. You do not turn. You know what he is looking at. He is looking...
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