The Golden Harbor
The first crack appeared in the seal of the canister not with a sound, but with a scent. It was a smell that did not belong to the sterile, humming air of Sub-level 4. It was the smell of overripe peaches, of bruised skin and fermented sugar, thick and cloying, pressing against the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a hand. Elias stood before the containment unit, his uniform pressed and...
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