The Pale Fracture
Elias Thorne woke in the humid, static-charged air of his workshop, the taste of copper and ozone heavy on his tongue, and for a disorienting, fractured moment he could not distinguish the cold, unyielding surface of the workbench from the smooth, curved underside of his own jaw. He lay still, staring at the ceiling where the fluorescent lights buzzed with a low, insectile hum that seemed to...
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