The Wistful Skyline
The steam from the boiler room did not merely rise into the cavernous hall of the Ministry of Internal Affairs; it invaded it, a thick, sulfurous fog that tasted of iron and old sweat, blurring the sharp edges of the mahogany desks and the gold leaf on the doorframes until the room became a shifting, watery dream where the boundaries between the living and the dead were as porous as the...
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