The Pale Fracture
The fluorescent lights in the Ministry of Continuity hummed at a frequency that Elias Vane had long since stopped hearing, a constant, low-grade vibration that seemed to seep into the marrow of his bones. He sat at his desk in the sterile, white-walled archives, his fingers hovering over the haptic interface, ready to upload the day’s recitations before the midnight deadline. The air tasted of...
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