The Wistful Show
The fluorescent hum of the server room was a low, electric thrum that vibrated in the marrow of Marcus’s bones, a frequency he had long ago mistaken for the sound of his own heartbeat. He stood before the mainframe, a monolith of brushed aluminum and blinking status lights, his fingers hovering over the haptic interface. The air was sterile, scrubbed clean of humidity and scent, preserving the...
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