The Pale Circus
The fog in Oakhaven did not drift; it pooled, a thick, grey slurry that sat heavy on the cobblestones and clung to the eaves of the stone cottages like damp wool. Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and moving with the precise, mechanical economy of a man who had long since abandoned the luxury of hesitation, checked his watch. The glass was cracked, the hands stopped at four, but he had...
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