The Pale Shadows
Thorne. The name hangs in the air, flat and cold, spoken by the orderly with the same bored cadence he uses to announce the arrival of the lunch tray. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you are currently a prisoner in a room that smells of antiseptic and stale fear. The walls are painted a shade of beige that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, and the fluorescent tube above your...
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