The Golden Mirror
The brass clip held the folder shut, a small, cold weight in Elias Thorne’s right hand, the metal biting into his palm as he stared at the polished surface of the mirror above the reception desk. The room was windowless, a box of beige carpet and white walls that smelled faintly of lemon polish and stale coffee, and the only light came from the recessed fixtures in the ceiling, casting a flat,...
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