The Wistful Letter
The air in the facility tastes of copper and ozone, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat with every breath. You are not in the world you knew, the one with rain-slicked streets and the smell of wet pavement, but here, in the sterile, humming dark of the containment wing. Your uniform, once crisp and authoritative, is torn at the shoulder, soaked through with a fluid that is not...
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