The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the day the rain in Seattle turned to a fine, persistent mist that clung to the wool of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s uniform like a second, heavier skin. He sat alone in the sparse quarters of his temporary posting, a room that smelled of damp cardboard and stale coffee, and watched the water bead on the windowpane, distorting the gray city beyond into a watercolor...
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