The Faded Guest
The air in the Grand Atrium of the Whitmore Industrial Consortium did not simply smell of oil and ozone; it tasted of it, a metallic tang that coated the tongue and settled deep in the lungs, a perpetual reminder that progress was a substance one had to breathe in to survive. Margaret Holloway stood before the central pillar, her hand resting against the cold, polished surface of the marble,...
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