The Golden Compass
The wall gave way not with a crash, but with a sigh, a long, structural exhale that turned the air in the bunker into a thick, gray soup of dust and wet concrete. We were three levels below the street in the old municipal archive, a concrete tooth set into the bedrock of the city, designed to hold the truth of the past. Instead, it was holding us in a chokehold. The ceiling, a slab of...
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