The Pale Protocol
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the day when the light in the corridor of the Ministry of Internal Affairs was the color of old milk, thick and curdling in the air. Elias Thorne, a clerk of the fourth division, took it from the slot in the door with a hand that trembled only slightly, a tremor he had learned to suppress so thoroughly that it lived now in the hollows of his bones rather than in...
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