The Pale Protocol

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2026-08-20 20:49:19 -

The Pale Protocol

The banquet hall smells of roasted pheasant and old sweat, a cloying mixture that hangs in the air like a physical weight, pressing against your temples until the room begins to spin with a slow, nauseating vertigo. You sit at the head of the long oak table, your uniform pressed tight against your chest, the buttons straining against the fabric as if trying to escape the confinement of your own...

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