The Distant Metropolis
I “You will not be struck off the register,” Captain Aram said, his voice flat as the stone floor beneath their boots.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌⁠‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‍‍‍‌⁠​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌‍​‍⁠​‍‌​​‌‍‍‍‍​‍⁠⁠​​‍‌‌⁠‌⁠‌‍‌⁠‍​​ Hovhannes Dimitrov stood in the damp cellar, the air heavy with liniment and wet wool, his left knee locked in a rigid, unnatural angle that screamed with every shift of weight. He was thirty years old, a...
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