The Golden Scar
The gaslight in the surgical theatre flickered with a sickly, jaundiced pulse as the anesthetic gas hissed through the iron pipes, a mechanical breath that seemed to mimic the dying rhythm of Elias Thorne’s own heart. He was forty years old, a man whose life had been defined by the precise taxonomy of the human form, yet in that moment, he was merely a specimen of failure, his left arm severed...
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