The Pale Fracture
Ying Zheng had thirty years of service and a cracked iron key that had served him longer than his marriage, the metal worn smooth by a thumb that no longer trusted its own grip. The air in the sub-basement of the Pale Fracture facility tasted of rust and old blood, a metallic tang that coated the back of his throat as he stood before the heavy blast door. Behind that steel, his wife Mei was...
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