The Pale Protocol
The ink had dried into a brown crust on my fingers before I realized I was still holding the pen, my hand trembling not from the cold that seeped up through the floorboards of the attic, but from the sudden, violent clarity of what I had just written. I looked down at the page, the parchment yellowing at the edges, smelling of dust and old varnish, and the words stared back at me, stark and...
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