The Pale Verdict
The air in the vaulted atrium of the Meridian Exchange smelled of ozone and burnt copper, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad taste. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the marble floor, his hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, vibrating intensity of the calculation unfolding in his mind. He was a man of numbers, a master of the invisible currents that moved...
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