The Faded Frequency
The foreman’s badge caught the weak October light, a small, cold glint that seemed to mock the rusted iron of the mast behind him. "You’re not on the authorized access list, Mr. Bradshaw," he said, his voice flat and bored, the kind of tone reserved for filing misplaced invoices or denying parking permits. I adjusted the strap of my recorder, the leather digging into my shoulder, and watched...
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