The Faded Apartment
The first sign was the taste. It came not in the mouth, but in the back of the throat, a metallic tang that lingered like the memory of a struck match. Margaret Holloway stood before the stainless-steel counter of the Central Intake Facility, her hands trembling so violently that the tray of preserved samples rattled against the edge. The room was vast and white, a sterile expanse of polished...
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