The Distant Metropolis
"Did you check the logs, or did you just guess?" Concetta Costa did not answer immediately. She stood in the sterile, high-security archives of the Ministry of Interior, the air heavy with ozone and old paper, a smell that had settled into her skin over twenty years of service. The red silk scarf was draped over her chair, a vivid splash of color against the grey plastic, yet the digital log...
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