The Pale Tale
The building was a tomb of glass and steel, a vertical slice of modernity that pierced the London sky like a needle into skin. It did not rot. It did not decay. It stood with the terrible, immutable permanence of a fact, reflecting the grey afternoon in its mirrored panels, indifferent to the human dramas that played out in its boardrooms. Margaret Holloway stood in the lobby, her heels...
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