The Pale Bonsai
The atrium of the Meridian Institute hummed with the sterile, pressurized silence of a vacuum-sealed tomb, a space where the air itself seemed to hold its breath in deference to the marble floors and the glass-walled offices that overlooked the void of the city below. Elias Thorne stood before the central pillar, his knuckles white as he gripped the tablet, the screen displaying the final line...
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