The Pale Protocol
The letter lies on the desk, the ink still wet and trembling under the gaslight, a dark pool spreading like a bruise across the heavy cream paper. You are holding it, your fingers stained black at the tips, your uniform tunic stiff with the sweat of a day that did not end but merely dissolved into the fog. The year is 1893, or perhaps 1910, or perhaps a time that never was, a place where the...
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