The Distant Wound
The air in the sub-basement of the Whitmore Correctional Facility did not smell of rot, as one might expect from a place designed to hold the condemned, but of ozone and old copper, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled deep in the lungs like a fine, inescapable dust. It was a sterile, industrial silence, broken only by the low, constant hum of the ventilation shafts...
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