The Pale Echo
The dream was a static-filled gray room, the kind of space that exists only in the architecture of sleep, where the walls breathe in and out with a slow, mechanical rhythm. I stood in the center of it, holding a badge that felt too heavy for my hand, its metal surface cold enough to burn. The air tasted of ozone and old copper. In the corner, a figure sat on a chair that was slightly too low...
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