The Golden Mirror
The dream began, as it always did, with the smell of ozone and wet iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s mouth even before his eyes adjusted to the dim, amber glow of the interrogation room. He was sitting at the steel table, the surface cold against his palms, staring into a mirror that was not a mirror but a window looking out onto a factory floor where steam...
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