The Wistful Skyline
The air inside the containment unit tasted of ozone and old copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to clear no matter how often I swallowed. It was a taste I had known for twenty years, a flavor that had seeped into my pores during the early tours in the desert, but here, in this sterile, white-walled box that served as my office, it felt different. It felt...
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