The Golden Suspect
The alarm did not ring. It screamed. Corporal Elias Thorne woke to the sound of his own breathing inside a mask that tasted of copper and old dust. The walls of the bunker, once painted a sterile, institutional white, now bled a viscous, amber fluid. It seeped through the concrete. It pooled in the corners. It smelled of burnt sugar and ozone. Elias sat up. His uniform was damp. The fabric...
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