The Distant Wound
The ink on the document was not dry when Silas Vane first noticed the way it bled into the skin of his palm, a dark, wet spiderweb that pulsed in time with his own erratic heartbeat. He stood alone in the center of the interrogation room, a space no larger than a closet, where the air was thick with the smell of ozone and old, stale coffee. The fluorescent lights above him hummed with a low,...
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