The Golden Scar
The ceiling cracked first. Not with a sound, but with a silence that had weight. It hung in the air of the bunker like smoke, thick and yellow. Then the fracture split the plaster, a jagged vein of dust bleeding down into the dark. Silas stood in the center of the room. He was a man built of angles and old scars, his uniform a dull gray that matched the concrete walls. He did not look up. He...
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