The Distant Wound
The rain had finally come, filling the dried wells of the colony with a sluggish, brown mud that smelled of iron and old rot. I stood in the sterile white atrium of the Ministry of Continuity, the forged identity card slick in my sweat-damp hand, watching the biometric gate reject my face with a flat, red hum. I was Ljubomir Petrosyan, thirty-four, a heat-refuge coordinator who had spent the...
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