The Distant Wound
The separation from the central processing unit was not a severing, but a dissolving, like salt grains losing their crystalline structure in a warm, indifferent sea. Marcus Thorne stood on the observation deck of the Ascendant, a tower of brushed steel and frosted glass that pierced the perpetual grey haze of the city, looking down at the street where his car waited, its engine idling with a...
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