The Wistful Asylum
The rain against the windowpane of the breakroom at Halloway Pharmaceuticals did not merely fall; it drummed a relentless, wet rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the throbbing behind Arthur Penhaligon’s temples, a pain that had long since ceased to feel like an injury and had instead calcified into the very architecture of his being, a structural flaw in the mortar of his days. He stood...
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