The Pale Protocol
The rain in Bristol had a weight to it. It pressed against the glass of the archive room, a grey, persistent hand trying to wipe away the past. Thomas Bradshaw sat at his desk, the only light coming from the desk lamp, a pool of yellow isolation in the center of the gloom. He adjusted his spectacles. The lenses were cracked down the middle. A small fracture, barely visible unless the light hit...
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