The Distant Cartograph
You wake up with the taste of copper and old rust on your tongue, that metallic tang that is the specific signature of a body trying to expel what it cannot hold, and you are lying in a narrow cot in a room that smells of damp wool, machine oil, and the faint, sweet decay of lilies left too long in a vase, the air so thick with the humidity of the underground that it feels less like atmosphere...
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