The Wistful Letter
The sky above the Blackwater Foundry did not break; it bled. A crimson haze, thick as arterial spray, suffused the ironclad clouds, turning the morning into a bruised twilight. Elias Thorne, Senior Inspector of the Anomalous Resonance Bureau, stood on the gantry of the north tower, his leather gloves stiff with frost and static. Below him, the machinery groaned, a low-frequency hum that...
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