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The Surprising Truth About Lying
The man gave a dry, humorless cough. “It wasn't a
switch, mate. The train hit something. I was looking
out the window. Just before the lights went out, I saw
it. There was a bright, green flash at the substation.
And then this massive, concrete thing, it looked like a
cooling duct, not debris, it swung out, hit the side of
the train, and the whole carriage went over. It was
loud. It was fast.”
He finally looked at Henry, his eyes tired and
haunted. “It wasn’t an accident. It was a cover-up.
They built that thing too close to the rail line, or they
overloaded the current, and when it blew, the
wreckage took the train with it. And now they’re
already lying about it to save someone’s neck.”
Henry looked at the man's torn sleeve, the blood
soaking through the gauze on his shoulder. This was
the raw, unedited footage of the city’s foundation. Not
the sleek lies he sold, but the sloppy, murderous lies
the infrastructure demanded.
He had walked away from the comfortable rot, only
to trip over the structural failure of the world. He
realized the problem wasn’t just his clients; the lie was
the entire system’s operating code. His job was just
premium packaging.
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