The Pale Protocol
The ledger in your hand is not merely a record of debts and credits, but a living thing, a cold, calcified heart that beats with the slow, rhythmic pulse of the town’s hidden sins, and you, Margot, are its only surgeon, its only confessor, holding the instrument of your own damnation with a grip that has whitened your knuckles until the bone presses dangerously against the skin, a sensation...
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