The Pale Dance
Clara. The name was not a summons but a verdict, delivered by the hum of the server farm in the basement of the Ashworth Museum, where the air tasted of ozone and stale coffee, and the fluorescent lights flickered with a dying, arrhythmic pulse that made the shadows on the concrete floor stretch and retract like the ribs of a gasping animal. I sat before the monitor, my fingers hovering over...
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