The Faded Masquerade
The air in the atrium of the Whitmore estate did not merely stand still; it hung, suspended in a viscous amber haze that smelled of ozone, old varnish, and the metallic tang of impending rain, a pressure that pressed against the eardrums with a physical weight that made the bones ache in a way that defied the barometric readings on the digital instruments clustered on the mahogany console. In...
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