The Hall is caked with the rusted metal and never stops raining. The industrial fans still turn, but with no significant power source. Their shadows eerily cut the silence as does the loud screeching of The Great Knife. My torch is my guide, and I have a sense that there will never be a home for me to return to. I don't know if this is a nightmare or just another reality. I could possibly be a madman, or am I looking into what Hell's face truly looks like?
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