The Golden Harbor
Thorne, you’re bleeding on the linoleum. The voice came from the doorway, sharp and bureaucratic, cutting through the damp chill of the basement corridor where Elias Thorne sat slumped against the cold brick wall, his head throbbing with a metallic, coppery taste that had not left his mouth since the ferry dropped him at Blackwood three days prior. He tried to stand, but his legs felt like wet...
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