The Pale Protocol
The ink is wet. My hand shakes. I write to you, Clara, though you are gone. Or perhaps I am. The distinction blurs in the damp air of this office. I am an investigator. I dig for truth. I dig for lies. I dig for the architecture of guilt. My client is the city. My enemy is the fog. The fog that eats the corners of buildings. The fog that eats the corners of memories. You were my anchor. My...
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