The Wistful Asylum
The bullet struck the hinge of the door before the sound arrived, a sharp, metallic crack that split the silence of the corridor like a whip. Marcus didn’t flinch. He had long ago calibrated his proprioception to the rhythm of the siege, the way the walls of the St. Jude’s Annex groaned under the weight of artillery that had not existed in any official inventory since 1994. He adjusted the...
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