The Pale Tower
The ink on the ledger page is still wet when you see it, a small, black tear in the fabric of the morning. It is not a stain, exactly, but a signature, a glyph of surrender that has seeped through the cheap paper into the skin of your wrist. You are standing in the center of the sterile white room, the air conditioning humming its low, mechanical hymn, and you are watching the word *Debt*...
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