The Distant Blade
The air in the Grand Hall of the Whitmore Institute for Advanced Cognitive Studies did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect in a building so steeped in the silent accumulation of decades, but rather of ozone, cold brass, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that clung to the velvet drapes like a ghost that refused to be exorcised, a scent that seeped into the very pores of the skin...
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