The Golden Master
The rain hits the pavement like a barrage of small, cold needles, and you are already bleeding. Not from a wound you can see, but from the sheer weight of the air, which here is not air but a dense, humming static that presses against your eardrums until they ring with a high, metallic whine. You stand in the center of what used to be a parking garage in Seattle, but now the concrete has melted...
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