The Golden Cellar
The hydraulic press groaned, a low, tectonic shudder that traveled up through the soles of Silas Vane’s boots and into the marrow of his shins. He stood in the center of the maintenance bay, a cathedral of rusted steel and hanging cables, the air thick with the metallic tang of ozone and old grease. It was three in the morning, the hour when the factory shifted from the frantic, rhythmic...
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