The Golden Cellar
The intercom crackled, a dry rasp that cut through the hum of the generator. "Thorne. Get down here. Now." It was Halloway’s voice, thin and stripped of warmth, the way a bone sounds when it has been bleached by sun and salt. You stood, your knees popping, the sound sharp in the small office where the air smelled of stale coffee and the metallic tang of fear. You were forty-two, and your body...
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