The Wistful Throne
The air in the server room was cold. It was sterile. It smelled of ozone and dust. Margaret sat in the dark. She wore a gray suit. It was ill-fitting. Her hair was pulled back. A tight bun. No makeup. She looked like a ghost. Or a statistic. The servers hummed. A low drone. A mechanical breath. Blue lights blinked. Red lights pulsed. The rhythm was steady. It was the heartbeat of the data...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 1 Views 0 previzualizare