The Distant Affair
The dream begins with the smell of rust and wet stone, a scent that coats the back of your throat before you even open your eyes. You are standing in a corridor that should not exist, the walls breathing with a slow, tidal rhythm that mimics the panic beating in your chest. This is the Labyrinth, the shifting arena where the final bout of the Grand Prix is held, though to you it looks less like...
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