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... were a festering wound on the city’s anatomy. Usually, the air here was a stagnant soup of poverty, the metallic tang of stale machine oil, and the smell of unwashed bodies. But tonight, the atmosphere had undergone a violent chemical shift.
The air felt heavy, charged with a static electricity that made the fine hairs on Dayat’s arms stand at attention. A pungent, eye-stinging aroma of burnt ozone dominated the senses, bleeding out from the Railgun MK-I slung over Dayat’s right shoulder ...
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