The Pale Protocol
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the district into a slick, grey mirror that reflected the soot-stained facades of the buildings. I stood in the queue for the Department of Vital Affairs, my fingers wrapped tightly around a cane that I no longer needed for balance, but for the sheer terror of letting go. I am Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, a man who has...
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