The Faded River
The explosion does not make a sound. At least, not at first. It is a white light, absolute and blinding, that swallows the room whole. You are standing in the center of the concrete bunker, the air thick with the scent of ozone and wet stone. Your knees buckle. The world tilts. Then comes the noise. It is not a roar. It is a tearing, a violent ripping of the fabric of reality. The ceiling...
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