The Golden Maze
The fluorescent lights of the Bureau’s sub-basement hum with a frequency that vibrates in the molars, a constant, low-grade thrum that Elias Thorne has come to associate with the onset of his own decline. He stands before the mirror in the dressing room, his hands resting on the edge of the steel sink, the tremor in his fingers distinct and rhythmic, a metronome counting down the seconds until...
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