The Pale Protocol
The letter is written on paper that feels like dried skin, brittle and cool to the touch. I hold it in my left hand, the knuckles white, while my right rests on the hilt of a service pistol I no longer carry. It is a Tuesday, though the day of the week matters less than the quality of the light filtering through the blinds of this apartment in Chicago. The city outside is a grey smear of steel...
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