The Pale Protocol
The hand is yours. It is always yours. You look at it now, resting on the cold oak of the desk, and you see the map of your life etched into the skin. The veins are blue rivers. The knuckles are swollen stones. You are a scholar. You study the body. Specifically, you study the decay. You sit in your office at the university. The room is small. The light is gray. Outside, the autumn wind...
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