The Golden Scar
The white of the Institute was not a color but a frequency, a low hum that vibrated in the teeth and settled in the marrow, stripping the world of shadow until only the stark, clinical brightness remained. I, Elias Thorne, an archivist who had spent forty years cataloging the dead, stood in the sterile corridor of Ward 9, watching the golden bloom creep up my own forearm, a spreading fungus of...
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