The Faded Attic
The air in the basement of the Whitmore Institute for Juvenile Reformation was not merely stale; it was a physical substance, a thick, sulfurous gelatin that coated the tongue and settled in the lungs, tasting of rusted iron, damp wool, and the distinct, sweet rot of institutional decay. Silas Vane sat in the center of the tiled room, his back pressed against the cold concrete wall, his hands...
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