The Pale Tale
You are standing in the white room, the kind of white that hurts your eyes if you stare too long, a sterile brightness that seems to eat the shadows from the corners. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and old rust, and you can feel the vibration of the machinery humming through the soles of your boots, a low, thrumming bass note that rattles in your teeth. You are wearing the...
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