The Wistful Saga
The alarm does not ring. It screams, a jagged tear in the silence of the sub-basement, a sound that tastes of copper and old blood. You are awake before your body moves, your mind already mapping the geometry of the room, the heavy iron door, the three guards posted at the perimeter. You are not a man anymore. You are a function of the state, a tool calibrated for precision, and the state is...
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