The Golden Ritual
The iron door of the sub-basement cell is not locked, yet you have not opened it in three days, not because you cannot, but because the air on the other side is thick with the smell of wet chalk and the metallic tang of your own stale breath, a scent that has become so intimately woven into the lining of your lungs that to breathe in the fresh, cold draft from the corridor would feel like a...
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