The Pale Echo
The iron lungs of the refinery groaned in the night, a rhythmic, metallic respiration that vibrated through the floorboards of the watchtower where Elias Thorne sat with his rifle across his knees. The tower was a concrete monolith, a lonely spike rising from the sprawling, soot-blackened expanse of the industrial park, isolating its occupant from the rest of the world in a cage of rusted steel...
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