The Pale Mist
The taste of copper and old pennies coated the back of Elias Thorne’s tongue as he woke, the sensation so vivid that for a disorienting moment he believed he was still lying in the sterile, white-tiled examination room of the St. Jude’s Medical Center, the IV drip in his arm humming with a faint, electric current that tasted of iron. He sat up in his narrow bed in the cramped apartment above...
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