The rain did not fall. It hovered. A grey mist, thick as wool, clung to the brickwork of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility. Inside, the air was stale, recycled, tasting of antiseptic and old fear. Silas Thorne stood by the window. He watched the water blur the world outside. He was a man built for order. Broad shoulders. A back that did not bend. For twenty years, he had kept the peace. Now,...
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