The Faded Masquerade
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a sound, a wet, tearing exhale that seemed to come from the bones of the building itself, a groan of structural betrayal that silenced the clatter of the porcelain being loaded onto the freight elevator. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the grand foyer of the St. Jude’s Institute for Advanced Restorative Arts, his hands still stained with the...
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