The Pale Exile
Thorne, get out of my office. The word hung in the stale air, smelling of pipe tobacco and old paper, before the door slammed shut with a violence that rattled the framed diplomas on the wall. You stood in the corridor, your hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, physical weight of the silence that followed. The Blackwood Asylum was a place where silence had a texture, like wet wool...
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