The Pale Exile
You are sitting in the dark of your office, the only light coming from the monitor’s pale, humming glow, and you are holding the coat. It is a long, charcoal wool overcoat, the kind of garment that speaks of quiet authority and a life lived in rigid, structured lines. It smells of cedar, of old tobacco, and of the particular, dry chill of a basement archive where time seems to have forgotten...
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