The Faded Guest
The dream is always the same, a relentless loop of geometry and decay. You are standing in the atrium of the Whitmore Institute, a glass-and-steel monolith that pierces the gray Chicago sky like a needle piercing a bruise. The floor is polished obsidian, reflecting your own distorted figure, a silhouette stretched thin by the verticality of the space. You are not a visitor here; you are a...
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