The Wistful Skyline
The iron key in Elias Thorne’s left hand did not merely weigh upon his palm; it anchored him to the floor of the windowless interrogation room with a gravitational pull that defied the simple arithmetic of mass and matter, a cold, persistent density that seemed to draw the heat from his bones and leave behind a hollow, aching void where his pulse should have been. He was forty-five years old, a...
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