The Distant Promise
The air in the basement of the Whitmore facility was not merely cold, but viscous, a gelatinous substance that seemed to coat the lungs with a film of metallic taste and damp silence, pressing against the diaphragm with the weight of centuries. You stand there, in the center of the hexagonal room, your white coat stained with the iridescent residue of the last extraction, watching the liquid in...
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