The Pale Protocol
The dream is always the same, a looping tapestry of wet wool and cold iron. You are standing in a room that does not exist, a space defined by the absence of light, where the only sound is the rhythmic, hydraulic thud of a pump forcing blood through veins that have not yet congealed. In the dream, you are not a man but a function, a mechanism of enforcement, your hands gloved in leather that...
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