The Distant Joke
The iron lung sat in the corner of the high-ceilinged chamber, a great black ribcage of polished metal and glass, humming with the rhythmic, mechanical breath of a machine that had long since forgotten how to sleep, and Elias Thorne, who had once been the most celebrated architect of the Empire’s industrial soul, sat before it not as a doctor but as a penitent, his hands resting on the cold...
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