The Wistful Show
The alarm did not ring, which was the first wrong thing, and the second wrong thing was that the air in the bunker tasted of ozone and burnt copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of Captain Elias Thorne’s throat as he sat bolt upright in his cot, the springs groaning under the sudden, violent weight of his waking body. He was a man of precise habits, a creature of routine forged in the...
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