The Pale Protocol
The letter lay on the slate desk, its seal broken, the ink still faintly wet in the center where the quill had last rested. Elias Thorne held it not with the reverence of a man holding a relic, but with the mechanical precision of a man handling a live wire. He was a man of the old guard, a Senior Inspector of the Bureau of Civic Order, a position that had once commanded respect and now...
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