The Wistful Silence
The fog does not rise from the ground; it seeps from the cracks in the concrete, a pale, sentient mist that tastes of ozone and old paper. You are Elias, thirty-two, and your fingers are stained with the black ink of the final ledger, the one that will end your contract tomorrow morning. The basement is a sealed tomb of humming servers and flickering fluorescent tubes, a place where the air...
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