The Pale Circus
The coughing fit started in the middle of the sentence, a wet, rattling tear in the fabric of his professional composure that sent the porcelain cup shattering against the polished oak of the mahogany desk, scattering hot tea and steam like a chaotic, miniature storm across the documents of the Grand Consortium of Industrial Hygiene, leaving a dark, spreading stain on the quarterly projections...
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