The Pale Mist
The pharmacy smelled of bleach and dried lavender. It was a sterile scent, the kind that masked the deeper, sweeter rot of age. Elias Thorne stood behind the counter, his fingers stained a permanent, faint violet from years of handling antiseptic tinctures. He was a man who lived by the logic of dosages. Milligrams. Centiliters. Precise, unyielding measurements that kept the world from...
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