The pocket
The tremors continued, a constant, ominous reminder of the
ticking clock.
The rhythm mic tremor, once a subtle unease, had escalated into a relentless pulse that vibrated through the very bones of the subterranean world. Dust rained from the ceiling, coating everything in a fine layer of grey, a constant reminder of their precarious existence. The Lumina, normally resilient and resourceful, were beginning to show the strain. Their faces, usually alight with a soft inner glow, were etched with exhaustion and fear.
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