The Wistful Incense
The scan is in, Thorne. The machine sees the rot before the bone does. You stand on the cold tile of the medical bay, the fluorescent lights humming a flat, electric note that drills into the base of your skull. Warden Halloway stands behind the glass partition, his arms crossed over a chest that seems too small for the authority he projects. He is a man of metrics, of optimized throughput, of...
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