The Faded Alibi
The train hissed against the tracks like a dying breath, carrying Elias Thorne toward the capital, where the air was thick with the scent of wet stone and old money. He sat in a corner of the second-class carriage, his hands resting on his knees, fingers interlaced so tightly that the knuckles turned the color of parchment, a physical manifestation of the tension that had coiled within his...
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