The Golden Cellar
Act I I remember the weight of it, the cold gold biting into my palm, while the air scrubber filter in my pocket rustled, overdue and clogged with the dust of our dying days. The cellar smelled of wet iron and the sour rot of the old world, a smell that clung to my tongue like the taste of blood. I was thirty-two, Isandro Loera, an arcology maintenance diver who had spent his life repairing...
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