The Pale Fracture
The bone in his right arm was not merely broken; it was a map of his failure, a jagged white line of pain that hummed with the static of the machine. Thomas Bradshaw lay on the cold steel table of the Correctional Sanatorium, his wrists bound by leather straps that bit into skin already raw from the previous night’s interrogation. The room was sterile, a vast white void that seemed to expand...
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