The Pale Circus
The glass shattered not with a bang, but with a sigh, a long, crystalline exhalation that seemed to pull the air out of the room and leave it cold. It was a Tuesday in late October, the kind of day where the sky hangs low and gray over the smog-choked rooftops of Millhaven, and Elias Thorne knew, with the sudden, visceral certainty of a man who has been holding his breath for decades, that the...
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