The air in Washington was not moving. It was August 2020, a time of stagnant trades and empty streets, where the only thing spreading faster than the contagion was the quiet rot of isolation. Behind the closed curtains of their respective legends, the agents of the cell were busy sharpening their knives.
They call it downtime in the handbooks, but for men like these, there is no such thing as rest, only the recalibration of one’s neuroses.
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