The Golden Myth
Act I Kwesi Mensah held the vacuum seal of the gene-bank cold room, his breath fogging the recycled plastic, while the wind outside shifted from a dry howl to a wet, heavy slap against the station’s hull. He was thirty-four years old, and he owed the council a berth mortgage that stretched longer than his shadow on the shingle beach below, a debt that tightened every time the generator coughed....
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