The Pale Tower
The air in the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Community Center smelled of damp concrete and the metallic tang of old pennies, a scent that had seeped into the very marrow of Sergeant Elias Thorne over the last three years. He stood in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, fingers interlaced with the rigid precision of a man who had spent two decades maintaining order in a...
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