The Faded Quadrant
The ink on the ledger was black, but it looked grey in the light that fell through the high, grimy windows of the Department of Records. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, a square of wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and erasers. His hands were still. They were always still. He was a man who had learned that movement attracted attention, and attention was a currency that led to audit, and audit...
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