The Wistful Throne
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a scream. It rose from the basement of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility, a sound so raw and animal that it shattered the sterile quiet of the administrative wing. Elias Thorne, a man whose face had long since lost the distinct architecture of his youth to become a map of deep, silent furrows, felt the vibration in his teeth before the alarms...
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