The Golden Oath
The air tastes of copper and ozone. You know this flavor. It is the taste of the threshold. You stand in the antechamber of the Firm. The walls are not plaster. They are memory. Pale, translucent sheets of data hang suspended in the void, humming with a low, subsonic thrum. You adjust your cuffs. The fabric is synthetic, cold against your wrists. You are ready. You have been ready for three...
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