The Faded Alibi
The iron tastes of blood. You taste it. It is a thick, copper sludge coating your tongue. You are in the pit. The air is thick with the smell of coal dust and sweat and something older, something rotting. It is a factory, but it is not a factory. It is a throat. You are in the throat of the world. You see him. He stands across the grate. He is you. But he is not. His clothes are torn. His face...
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