The Wistful Ashes
The air in the detention block smelled of ozone and damp wool, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a swallowed stone. Yamato Nakamura stood at the perimeter, his uniform pressed tight against his ribs, listening to the low hum of the neural servers that thrummed beneath the floorboards like a second heartbeat. He was thirty-four years old, a man who had spent the last decade...
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