The Golden Farce
The brass button slipped from Elias Thorne’s fingers and struck the floor with a dull, metallic thud. He did not flinch. The tremor in his hand was a constant, a low-level vibration that had settled into his nerves like damp wool, making fine motor tasks a daily assault on his dignity. He bent, his spine creaking in protest, and retrieved the small disc of metal. It was cold, indifferent, and...
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