The Pale Fracture
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray veil that turned the cobblestones of Ashworth Lane into slick, dark mirrors reflecting the low, oppressive sky. Elias Thorne sat in the back room of his small, damp apartment, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and the metallic tang of old iron. He was a man carved from silence, his face a map of deep-set lines and weary eyes...
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