The Faded Masquerade
The air in the Grand Hall of the Whitmore Industrial Complex did not merely circulate; it hung, thick and suffocating, a heavy velvet curtain drawn tight over the lungs of every soul trapped within its iron ribs, where the chandeliers, those grotesque clusters of gas jets, cast a jaundiced, flickering light that seemed to eat the shadows rather than banish them, illuminating not the faces of...
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