The Golden Scar
The air in the Corridor tastes of ozone and wet iron. You are running, your lungs burning with the sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline, while the walls breathe around you, expanding and contracting with a slow, rhythmic pulse that defies the static geometry of the architecture. This is the Labyrinth, the central processing hub of the Institute, a place where logic is curated and dissent is...
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