The Pale Shadows
The iron lungs of the station groaned, a metallic wheeze that seemed to vibrate directly into the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, and he stood there in the center of the platform, his uniform pressed tight against his chest, the brass buttons catching the sickly, jaundiced light of the gas lamps that flickered with an irregular, arrhythmic pulse, as if the station itself were having a fever...
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