The Pale Protocol
The ink is still wet on the final line, and I can smell the iron tang of the gall, a scent that has become as familiar to me as the damp rot of the city’s underbelly. You are reading this, or you will be, and by the time the words reach your eyes, I will have already surrendered the only thing I had left that was truly mine. It is a strange thing, to be a prisoner in a city that does not know...
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