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Chapter 182: Field Assignment (7)
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... : black spires stabbing up through a quilt of morning fog, mirrored walls still wet with last night’s sleet, every surface insisting it would never be softened by the warmth of human hands.
Soren’s boots sucked at the ice-glazed ruts, archipelagos of refuse swirling around his ankles, the city’s greeting committee, all rot and chemical perfume. Somewhere above, a bell tolled, each note longer and more exhausted than the last, as if even time itself was waiting for a shift change.
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