The Pale Path
The wool of your greatcoat, that heavy, greyish-brown fabric that has absorbed the dampness of a hundred Scottish winters, sits in the corner of the cell like a slumped, defeated animal, and you cannot look at it without feeling the phantom weight of its collar tightening around your throat. You are Colonel Elias Thorne, and you are currently standing in the middle of a sterile, white-walled...
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