The Pale Fracture
The summons came not as a voice, but as a chime, a sterile, high-pitched tone that vibrated through the floorboards of the Bureau of Continuity, a sound Elias Thorne had learned to associate with the weight of his own complicity over the last twenty years. He stood in the central archive, a windowless vault of white metal and humming servers, where the air was so dry it cracked the skin on his...
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