The Pale Protocol
The glass was cracked before I even finished the first sentence of my confession. It sat on the heavy oak desk in the center of the archive room, a delicate, iridescent thing that had once been a perfect sphere, now fractured into a dozen jagged shards that still held together only by the sheer, stubborn tension of the glue I had applied three nights ago. I am Thomas Bradshaw, Keeper of the...
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