The Wistful Asylum
The lights in the cafeteria flickered, a stuttering pulse that matched the throb in your temples. You stood by the serving line, steel tray in hand, watching the steam rise from the slop. Around you, two hundred men in orange jumpsuits ate with a grim, mechanical efficiency, their eyes flat and dead. You were Elias Thorne, thirty-two, a corrections officer at Blackwood Penitentiary, and you...
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