The Distant Crown
The air in the bunker was thick with the taste of ozone and old sweat, a metallic tang that coated the back of Marcus Thorne’s throat as he pressed his back against the cold, damp concrete wall, his breathing shallow and ragged, each inhale a laborious negotiation with the panic that had been slowly eroding his sanity since the doors had sealed shut hours ago. He was a man who had built his...
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