The Golden Suspect
The soju tasted of burnt sugar and rust, a thick liquid that coated the back of my throat and did not go down. I stood at the edge of the banquet table in the basement of the motor works, watching the golden light bleed from the chandeliers above. It was a strange light, thick and amber, pooling on the floorboards like spilled honey. The air hummed with a low vibration that I felt in my teeth...
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