The Golden Crossing
The air in the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Hospital power plant tasted of ozone and wet iron. It was a thick, metallic flavor that coated the tongue, a taste that had become as familiar to Elias Thorne as his own pulse. He sat on a crate of spare fuses, his knees drawn up to his chest. The silence here was not empty. It was a living thing, a heavy blanket of static that pressed against his...
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