The Pale Verdict
The brass weight of the desk lamp sat heavy in your palm, its cold surface biting into your skin as you adjusted the angle to illuminate the actuarial tables spread before you. It was 1912, and the Meridian Insurance Exchange smelled of stale tobacco and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. You were Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a junior actuary whose hands trembled not from age, but from...
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