V-03-铁笼星辰-202606011542

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2026-05-29 21:30:11 -

The rain on Station Sigma-7 smelled like ozone and old whiskey. Vincent Cross sat at his desk in the lower corridors of the space station, staring at a half-empty glass of something that used to be bourbon but had been sitting open for three days, and a typewriter whose spacebar stuck every fourth keystroke. He was forty-two years old. He had been a journalist once—a real journalist, at the LA...

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