The Pale Door
The iron gates of the Blackwood Penitentiary groaned against the rusted hinges as the autumn rain lashed the cobblestones in a relentless, staccato rhythm that seemed to synchronize with the heavy, laboring breaths of the men who stood upon the battlements, their uniforms soaked through to the skin, their faces pale and drawn by a terror that was not for themselves but for the man who had been...
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