The Distant Temple
The obsidian mirror sat on the desk, cold to the touch, reflecting not Elias Thorne’s face but the pale, hollow eyes of Mr. Henderson, who had died in the east wing three years prior. Elias adjusted his tie, the fabric rough against his neck, and checked the clock. It was three in the morning. The St. Jude’s Municipal Asylum hummed with the low, electric drone of failing fluorescent lights and...
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