The Distant Nightmare
Act I Every system eats its own children. Kaito Ishikawa stood in the center of the hall, the smell of stale champagne and wet wool thick in his throat. He clutched a single, withered orchid stem, its leaves brown and brittle. He wanted the signature. He needed it by midnight to save his home. The applause had not stopped. It was a physical weight, a wall of sound that pressed against his...
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