The Distant Promise
The rain against the glass of the fourth-floor office window was not merely weather, but a persistent, rhythmic accusation, a drumbeat that kept time with the throbbing pulse in Elias Thorne’s temples. He sat in the dim, amber-lit sanctuary of his cubicle, the air thick with the scent of ozone and stale coffee, the digital glow of his monitor painting his face in shades of ghostly blue and...
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