The Pale Exile
The iron gate of the Blackwood Asylum shuddered against its rusted hinges as Arthur Vane slammed his shoulder into the frame, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the dead, fog-choked air that clung to the wet cobblestones of the industrial district. He was not there to heal, nor was he there to observe; he was there to break, to shatter the fragile, porcelain-like silence that had swallowed his...
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