The Faded Dust
The champagne in the crystal flutes is cold, a stark, biting reality that contrasts sharply with the stifling heat of the chandelier above, yet you drink it without savoring the taste, your eyes fixed not on the glittering crowd but on the heavy oak doors at the far end of the ballroom where the Minister stands, laughing with a man you know to be corrupt. You are Dr. Elias Thorne, and for...
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