The Golden Maze
The furnace roars in the back of the studio, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the soles of your boots and settles deep in your chest, a rhythm that feels less like heat and more like the slow, arrhythmic beating of a dying heart. You are Elias, forty-two, and your hands, stained permanently with the ash of a thousand failed vessels, are currently wrapped around the blowpipe, guiding...
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