The Distant Wound
The rain in the Sector did not fall so much as it was dispensed, a fine, regulated mist that smelled of ozone and crushed metal, drifting down from the sky-scrubbers that hummed with the low, subsonic vibration of the State’s eternal vigilance. Commander Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the Observation Deck, his boots planted firmly on the cold, polished obsidian floor, watching the grey...
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