The Distant Temple
The collapse of the West Wing was not an explosion, but a groan, a tectonic shifting of wet concrete and rebar that sounded suspiciously like a human voice giving up. Margaret Holloway stood in the center of the atrium, her hands still raised in the specific, calibrated gesture used to dampen seismic resonance in Class IV containment facilities. The air tasted of copper and ozone, a metallic...
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