The Pale Exile
You need to stop touching that thing, Elias. It is not a museum piece, it is a liability. Marcus stood at the top of the concrete stairs, his silhouette framed by the fluorescent buzz of the upper hall, his face a mask of bureaucratic exhaustion. I looked down at the wool garment draped over my workbench, its texture rough and dark, humming with a low static that made the hair on my forearms...
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