The Faded Chronicle
The air in the sub-basement of the Ministry of Internal Affairs tasted of ozone and old copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and settled deep in the lungs like a fine, invisible silt. I stood before the containment unit, a towering cylinder of reinforced glass and lead-lined steel, my hands resting on the cold, unyielding edge of the observation deck. Inside, suspended in a...
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