The Wistful Skyline
The air inside the Iron Lung did not smell of rust or oil, as one might expect of a machine built to crush the breath from a man’s body, but rather of wet slate and the coppery tang of old blood that had long since dried into the fabric of the walls. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the center of the circular chamber, his boots sinking slightly into the floor, which was not wood or stone but...
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