The Pale Protocol
The dream was always the same, a cold gray room where the air tasted of iron and old dust, and in the corner stood a figure that did not breathe but watched, its shape defined only by the way the light refused to touch it. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of blood in his mouth, his hands trembling so violently that the ink from his quill splattered across the page like dark, spreading bruises....
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