The Pale Protocol
The ink is still wet on the page, a dark bloom against the cream paper, yet the room feels distant, as if I am viewing my own life through a pane of frosted glass. I am writing this from the isolation ward, or what the staff calls the Quiet Room, though there is nothing quiet about the hum of the ventilation system or the scratching of my own pen. I am Silas Vane, though that name is becoming...
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