The Pale Meridian
The building stood like a tooth in the jaw of the city. It was granite and glass, cold and unyielding, reflecting the gray sky with a mirror-like indifference. Inside, the air was recycled, filtered, and silent. It smelled of dust and old paper, a scent that clung to the back of the throat. Elias Thorne sat in his office on the fourteenth floor. The room was sparse. A desk. Two chairs. A...
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