The Pale Door
The air inside the bunker did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect of a place sealed away from the sun for decades, but rather of a thick, cloying sweetness, a fermented perfume that clung to the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like a second, heavier skin. Elias Thorne sat on the cold concrete floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands resting on his shins where...
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