The Golden Farce
You wake with the taste of copper and ozone on your tongue, a metallic tang that clings to the back of your throat like a secret you are too afraid to speak aloud. The air in the city is thick, not with the usual smog of diesel and exhaust, but with a heavy, humming static that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. You are standing on the roof of the old textile mill in Manchester, where...
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