The Faded Dust
What remained of Yamato Ishikawa was less a man than a stain on the ledger, a debit column that refused to balance against the credit of his forty-five years of service. He stood now in the holding cell, the air heavy with diesel and thawing earth, holding the blackened orchid that had once been the pride of the Imperial Ministry’s botanical annex, its petals now a deep, arterial red, pulsing...
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