The Distant Wound
My hands were trembling as I held the fiber-optic splicer against the exposed cable, the blue light of the interface reflecting off my sweat-slicked brow. The server room was cold, a sterile chill that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the weight of the data I was trying to erase. Three days. That was all the time I had before the Ministry of Memory reassigned me...
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