The Distant Whispers
The frost had not yet settled on the slate roofs of Millbrook, but the air inside the boiler room tasted of iron and impending winter. You stood before the primary pressure vessel, your gloved fingers tracing the hairline fracture in the riveted seam, the metal cold and unyielding against your skin. It was a flaw so subtle that most men would have missed it, a whisper of stress in a structure...
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