The Distant Threshold
The smell of burnt caramel and industrial solvent hung heavy in the air of the central processing unit, a cloying, sweet rot that David Ashworth had learned to associate with the specific, high-frequency hum of the state’s appetite for order. He stood before the massive, glass-walled containment field, his fingers stained with the faint, iridescent residue of Compound 7, the primary stabilizer...
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