The Faded Frontier
The champagne in your glass is warm, a stale, coppery thing that tastes of the chandelier above. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you are sweating through your linen suit. The Meridian Insurance Bureau’s quarterly gala is a sea of silk and whispered judgments, a crowded room where the air is thick with the scent of lilies and the heat signatures of impending mechanical failure. You do not...
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