The Pale Circus
The canvas shudders, a low, tectonic groan that vibrates through the soles of your boots and into your chest. You are Elias Thorne, and you are standing in the center of a collapsing circus tent, the air thick with the scent of old sawdust and ozone. Your lungs, scarred by years of neglect and terminal respiratory failure, burn with every shallow breath. The structure is wrong; it is a sealed,...
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