The Pale Protocol
The ink is wet, and the rain is hammering against the leaded glass of the upper window, a relentless drumming that sounds less like weather and more like the frantic scratching of mice inside the walls of my mind, for I am writing this from the high, cold loft of the old textile mill on Ironwood Street, where the air smells of damp wool and the metallic tang of fear, and I am trying to convince...
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