The Pale Meridian
The hum of the server farm was not a sound so much as a physical pressure, a low-frequency vibration that settled in the marrow of my bones and refused to leave, a constant reminder that the data we held was not merely information but a living, breathing entity that demanded to be fed, to be cooled, to be kept in a state of perpetual, sterile suspension, and I stood in the central aisle of the...
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