The Golden Maze
I Grietje Nieuwenhuis wiped the grease from her palms onto a rag that had been white once, years ago, and stepped over the threshold of the strip club, the door banging shut behind her with a finality that felt like a verdict. The smell of stale sweat and industrial lemon cleaner hit her before the sight of the empty stage did, a pungent, acidic fog that clung to the back of her throat. She was...
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