The Pale Bonsai
Thorne. The name hung in the glass-walled office, stripped of all courtesy, a blunt instrument wielded by Julian Vane to clear the air before he struck. I looked up from the quarterly risk assessment, my pen hovering over a column of mortality tables, and watched Julian lean against the doorframe, his suit immaculate, his smile a thin, bureaucratic line. He was not there to discuss the models....
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