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... obby.
We chased him, but it was like chasing a shadow with legs. His movements were unnervingly quick—precise, even. Each stride ate up the tiled floor like he’d been training for this very sprint his whole life.
The lobby itself felt more like a bunker than an entrance. The air carried that faint metallic tang of oil and machinery, the kind that clings to your tongue. Every sound bounced off the steel-paneled walls—our footfalls, the distant hum of ventilation ducts, the faint v ...
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