The Golden Cellar
The cellar smelled of damp earth and old iron, a scent that had seeped into the fibers of Julian’s uniform until it was indistinguishable from his own sweat. He sat on a crate of confiscated liquor, his back against the cold stone, his hands resting on his knees, still trembling with the residual electricity of the struggle. Above him, the heavy oak door was sealed, but he could hear the...
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