The-Hermetic-Compositor
Arthur Pendelton had spent six years breathing coal dust before he ever held anything that glowed on its own. The Pendelton laboratory sat atop a converted warehouse in Whitechapel, its windows permanently stained with soot and rain. Inside, the air smelled of ozone, copper, and something Arthur could never identify — a sharp, metallic scent that seemed to rise from the brass-and-ebony machine...
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