The Static of Lost Souls
The grey was not a fog, but a frequency. In the ruined silhouette of Los Angeles, the Shroud had become the only constant. For ten years, it had draped the city in a charcoal-grey silence, a ceiling that didn't just block the sun, but digested the noise, the light, and the very sense of self from those trapped beneath it. The locals called it the Shroud, but Elias Vance knew it was the skin of...
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