The Wistful Atlas
The wine glass slipped, not from Elias’s hand, but from the gravity of the room, shattering against the marble floor of the St. Jude’s atrium with a sound like a bone breaking. Dr. Aris Thorne did not look up from his clipboard. He stood before the assembly of nurses and junior staff, his white coat buttoned to the throat, his posture a rigid architecture of authority. He pointed a pen at the...
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