The Golden Scar
The coat was not merely wool and thread; it was a skin he had grown over the years, a second dermis that breathed with the same erratic rhythm as his own lungs. Elias Thorne did not put it on in the morning; he emerged from the sleep of the night already wrapped in its familiar, heavy embrace, the fabric so worn and thin that the light from the corridor seemed to pass through him as much as the...
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