The Pale Door
The seal broke not with a crack, but with a sigh of stale air. Elias Vane stood in the center of the vault, the dust motes dancing in the single beam of light that pierced the heavy oak door. He was a man of precision, a craftsman of the intangible, whose hands had smoothed the rough edges of a thousand corporate ledgers until they sang. But here, in the belly of the old bank, the silence was a...
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