The Distant Temple
The ink is wet. You look at the page. It is blank, yet the surface glistens with a fresh, oily sheen that catches the fluorescent hum of the office. Your left hand twitches. The scar tissue there pulls tight against the bone, a reminder of the minor discrepancy in the Q3 logistics report. You are Elias Thorne. You are forty-two years old. You have six months until mandatory retirement. You want...
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