The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday. Paper. Thin. Cold. Thomas read it. Again. The ink was gray. The words were simple. *Report to the Gate. Bring the meal.* He looked at the wall. Wood. Old. He looked at the table. Bread. Hard. Cheese. Stale. Thomas stood up. His knees creaked. He was old. He had been young once. That was a lifetime ago. He picked up the loaf. He broke it. The crumbs fell. Like...
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