The Wistful Ashes
The air in the boiler room tasted of sulfur and old pennies, a metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he gripped the edge of the iron table. Across from him, Director Halloway stood with his back to the furnace, his white gloves pristine against the soot-stained walls, tapping a silver watch against his palm with a rhythmic, impatient click. "You have until dawn, Elias,"...
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