The Pale Verdict
The rain fell in sheets of gray static against the reinforced glass, blurring the neon bleed of the city into a watercolor smear of indifference, while inside the sterile white box of the containment unit, Elias Thorne’s knuckles were white, trembling not from fear but from the precise, mechanical discipline of a man holding back a tide that had no right to be so heavy. He was a Warden,...
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