The Wistful Witness
The alarm did not ring. It screamed. A high, thin shriek that tore through the sterile air of the server room, a sound that felt less like audio and more like a physical laceration. Mara Vance did not flinch. She sat at the primary terminal, her fingers hovering over the mechanical keyboard, suspended in a state of hyper-awareness. The room was cold, a frozen pocket in the heart of the data...
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