The Wistful Atlas
The air in the basement laboratory of the Whitmore estate did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect in a house that had been abandoned by its living occupants for three years, but rather of ozone, burnt copper, and the sharp, metallic tang of high-voltage electricity, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a physical weight, a constant reminder that he was...
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