The Pale Mist
The air in the cellar was thick, not with dust, but with a heavy, sweet rot that clung to the back of the throat like a secret too long kept. It was a scent that defied the sterile, white-tiled logic of the clinic above, a smell of earth and overripe fruit and the slow, inevitable decay of things that should have been discarded. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the room, his tie loosened,...
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