The Golden Scar
The summons came not as a knock, but as a smell: the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and old paper that permeated the air of the Ministry of Compliance before the doors even opened. You are Margaret Holloway, forty-two years old, and you have spent nineteen of those years in this grey stone throat of a building, auditing the ledgers of the state. Your want is simple, specific, and financial: to...
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