The Wistful Throne
The brass buckle of my belt felt cold against my palm, a small, heavy weight that grounded me in the sterile, recycled air of the Sector Four briefing room. I was forty-two years old, and I had spent the last three years trying to scrub the taste of blood and dust from the back of my throat, a flavor that no amount of coffee or cold water could wash away. My want was simple and concrete: the...
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