The Pale Protocol
The ink had not yet dried on the final entry when the frost began to creep across the glass of the study window, a delicate, fern-like lace that threatened to seal the room in its icy embrace. Arthur Pendelton sat hunched over his ledger, the leather strap of his watch ticking a frantic, arrhythmic pulse against his wrist, a sound that seemed to drown out the silence of the house. Outside, the...
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