The Golden Suspect
The ink on the seal did not dry. It shimmered, a viscous gold that pulsed with a rhythm indistinguishable from a human heartbeat. Marcus Thorne held the quill suspended over the parchment, his wrist aching with a fatigue that had nothing to do with the hours he had spent in the archive and everything to do with the weight of the thing itself. In the Department of Anomalous Records, time was not...
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