The Wistful Ashes
Yuna Sasaki had served the Bureau for twelve years, a fact that made her hands permanently stained with the grey residue of the Ash. The air in Sector 4 tasted of copper and old paper, a dry grit that settled in the throat and refused to wash away. She stood at the perimeter, the flare gun heavy in her hip pocket, watching the fog roll over the high moor where the snow had failed to stick. The...
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