The Pale Dance
The server room smelled of ozone and old dust, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a dry leaf. He stood before the main rack, his fingers hovering over the cold, smooth surface of the server case, feeling the vibration that should not have been there. It was a low, rhythmic hum, deeper than the fans, a pulse that matched the beating in his own chest. Elias was...
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