The Pale Meridian
The server rack hummed, a low-frequency vibration that Elias Thorne felt in his molars before he heard it in his ears, a sound so constant it had become the baseline of his existence for the last six months. He held a cold cup of coffee, the cardboard sleeve damp, and stared at the monitor where the Meridian Protocol’s code scrolled in an endless, pale cascade of white text on black. The office...
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