The Distant Whispers
The brass fitting on the main water valve groans, a low, metallic shriek that cuts through the humid air of the subterranean pumping station, and you wipe your forehead with a cloth that is already dark with oil and sweat. The air here is thick, saturated with the scent of rust, damp concrete, and the faint, electric tang of ozone that seems to linger in the walls of this forgotten industrial...
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