The Pale Exile

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2026-08-25 05:25:17 -

The Pale Exile

The air in the Tōhoku sector smelled of ozone and dried thorn, a sharp, metallic scent that coated the back of Taro Matsumoto’s throat. He stood at the airlock of his father’s clinic, a squat concrete block buried in the scrubland, watching the red dust settle on the glass. He was forty-two, and his hands, usually steady enough to weld orbital tethers under vacuum, trembled as he keyed in the...

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