The Wistful Ashes
The server hums, a low, electric thrum that you feel in your molars before you hear it in your ears, a frequency that has become the ambient soundtrack of your existence in the White Zone. You sit at a terminal that is less a desk and more a skeletal cage of glass and cold steel, the interface glowing with a sterile, surgical blue that bleaches the color from your skin. You are not supposed to...
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