The Golden Maze
The wrench bit into the bolt head, spinning with a resistance that felt less like metal and more like flesh. Elias Thorne twisted his wrist, the tendons in his forearm pulling tight against the skin, and the rusted flange gave way with a shriek that echoed down the ventilation shaft. It was 1912, and the air inside the Blackwood Ironworks was thick with the smell of hot iron and old blood. He...
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