The Pale Protocol
The ink had barely dried on the final signature when the air in the room thickened, becoming a viscous, amber substance that seemed to suspend the very dust motes in a state of perpetual, suffocating arrest. Captain Elias Thorne sat at the heavy oak desk, the wood grain worn smooth by decades of similar hands, and watched the candle flame tremble not from a draft, but from the sheer weight of...
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