The Wistful Incense

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2026-08-19 19:54:05 -

The air in the containment unit tasted of ozone and stale coffee, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and refused to leave. It was a sterile, hermetically sealed box, a modern mausoleum for the dying, where the only movement came from the rhythmic beep of the cardiac monitor and the slow, almost imperceptible rise and fall of Lieutenant Elias Thorne’s chest. I stood by the window,...

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