The air in the apartment did not vibrate with the city’s hum anymore; it rattled with the rhythmic, mechanical clicking of a high-speed projector. Every shadow cast against the peeling wallpaper was sharp, edged with the artificial contrast of a high-budget horror film. Silas Blackwood stood in the center of the living room, his hands trembling with a human frailty he had never known in the North. He looked at Kaelen, his son, whose eyes were no longer the stormy sea-grey of a Thorne-Blackwood heir, but two hollow, light-drinking pits of liquid black ink."Kaelen, look at me," Silas whispered, his voice a jagged rasp that was swallowed by the sudden, swelling orchestral score rising from the floorboards.The boy did not answer. He raised the red needle, the "Blood-Red" light of the new genre pulsing in sync with the "Record" notification on the ceiling. The Critic, standing behind him, let out a soft, appreciative hum."The pacing is perfect, Silas Thorne,
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