The Pale Protocol
The ink is still wet on your father’s last letter. You watch it bleed into the parchment, a dark vein spreading like a bruise under skin, and you wonder if the words meant anything at all. You are standing in the center of the room, the air thick with the smell of coal dust and old paper. Outside, the city of Ashworth churns in the fog, a beast of iron and steam that eats the dawn. You are a...
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