The Handler's Awakening
I remember the first time I saw him. He looked like a ghost that had forgotten how to haunt. Edward Harlowe, a man from a century of smoke and secrets, lying on the obsidian table of St. Augustine's. He was a relic, a preserved piece of psychiatric history, but the moment he opened his eyes, I felt a shift in the room. It wasn't a neural pulse or a data transfer. It was something older. A...
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