(SOFIA QUISPE’S POINT OF VIEW)"Can you hear that, Nomo? It’s not just the humming of the city anymore. It’s a rhythmic, agonizing pulse, like a dying star trying to take one last breath," Sofia said, her voice echoing through the vaulted obsidian hallway with a metallic, choral resonance. She didn't turn her head; the sapphire crystallization had now climbed to her cheekbones, locking her gaze forward in a permanent, crystalline mask of focus. Every word she spoke sent a shimmer of indigo light through the translucent skin of her throat, illuminating the dark corridors of the Palace of Whispers."I don't hear a pulse, Sofia. I hear a slaughterhouse," Nomo replied, his voice muffled by the thick lead-lined visor. He moved with his pulse-rifle raised, his steps cautious on the polished obsidian floor. The air here was heavy with the scent of ozone and something far worse—the smell of copper and stale, artificial blood. "The deeper we go, the hotter the air gets. It’s like the palace is
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