The Wistful Witness
The dream began, as it always did, in the sterile, humming silence of the sub-basement, a place that existed simultaneously in the physical world and in the fractured architecture of Major Elias Thorne’s mind, where the air tasted of ozone and old copper and the fluorescent lights buzzed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly against the teeth. He stood before the containment unit, a...
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