The Pale Protocol
The pen moved in a steady, deliberate line across the page, scratching against the cheap, recycled paper of the St. Jude’s Institute ledger, a sound that was swallowed almost immediately by the low, constant thrum of the ventilation system. It was the sound of the place, a mechanical drone that had become so woven into the fabric of Elara Vance’s days that she no longer heard it as noise, but...
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