The Pale Protocol
The cold got into my bones before I ever left the house. It sat there, heavy and gray, like a stone in the gut. I wrote this down on the back of a receipt, the ink smearing under my wet thumb. The paper was thin. It was cheap. Everything is cheap when you are dying, or so it seems. I am not dying. I am just walking. And walking is hard when the legs are made of rust. My name is Elias. I was a...
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