The Pale Protocol
The ink is dry. My hand trembles, not from cold, but from the weight of what I have written. I am writing to you, Captain. I am writing to the Board. I am writing to no one. The paper is thin. It feels like skin. It feels like a wound that will not close. I am in the cellar. The air is thick. It smells of damp stone and old iron. The light is pale. It comes from a single lamp. It is not enough....
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