The Faded Masquerade
The fog does not roll in; it rises, a thick, gray soup that smells of iron and wet rot, swallowing the perimeter fence of Outpost 4 until the world is nothing but a wet, breathing gray. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a border patrol officer whose lungs have begun to taste of rust, a slow, wet cough that settles in your chest like a stone. You want the pension. You want the...
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