The Pale Fracture
The mark was not a scar, but a sentence, etched into the flesh of my left palm in ink that had long since dried into the grain of the skin. It read: *Property of the State*. For thirty years, I have carried this glyph as a burden, a testament to a crime I committed in my youth, a crime of silence in a world that demanded speech. I am Elias, and I live in the high tower of the Ministry of...
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