The Faded Ruin
The air in the Bureau of Civic Harmonization tasted of copper and stale antiseptic, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a second skin. He sat alone in his glass-walled office, the hum of the ventilation system a low, thrumming drone that seemed to vibrate in his teeth, and he stared at the object resting on his mahogany desk. It was a porcelain cup, chipped at the...
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