The Pale Exile
The fluorescent lights in the basement of the Municipal Records Center hummed with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly in the marrow of your bones. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you have been an archivist here for six years, a tenure that feels less like a career and more like a slow, silent burial. The air is sterile, filtered through industrial vents that cycle the same dry,...
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