The Pale Bonsai
The pen felt heavy in my hand, cold against the sweat of my palm. I uncapped it, the click sharp in the silence of the office, and looked down at the quarterly risk assessment. The ink was blue, standard issue, and it bled slightly into the textured paper. Outside, the wind battered the Victorian glass of the tower block, a sound like dry leaves skittering across concrete. I was Elias Thorne,...
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