Waking up to my sin
The interior of the Iron Cathedral was a symphony of preparation, a discordant melody of clashing steel and hushed, gravelly voices. The air, once stagnant with the suffocating smell of rust and damp stone, was now charged with the metallic scent of gun oil and the sharp, acidic tang of sharpening stones. In the center of the cavernous warehouse, beneath a flickering halogen light that had been rigged to a gas-powered generator—its low hum a constant heartbeat in the background—a massive wooden table sat like an altar. It was covered in curled floor plans, faded blueprints, and grainy satellite photos of the High Council’s most secure assets.