The Faded Masquerade
The border at Medenine hummed with the static of a thousand unfiled complaints, a low-grade friction that rubbed the skin of the town raw. In the shadow of the customs post, where the salt wind scoured the paint from the walls, Ahmad Saleh stood guard over a sealed room, his hand resting on the cold steel of his sidearm. He was thirty-four, a man whose pension depended on the next arrest, and...
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