The Faded Alibi
The dream begins not with a sound but with the weight of a glass bottle against your chest, a heavy, cold pressure that feels less like an object and more like a solidified moment in time, and you are standing in the center of the vast, sterile atrium of the Pemberton Institute for Social Sciences, a place that smells of floor wax and old paper and the faint, metallic tang of anxiety that...
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