The Pale Circus
The ozone taste is metallic, sharp, and undeniable, sitting on the back of your tongue like a penny you have forgotten to spit out, and you are currently three feet from the ground, suspended in a harness attached to the ceiling rigging, trying to reach a box of index cards that has slipped behind the upper ventilation duct in Sector Four. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a junior...
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