The Golden Scar
The ink on the ledger page was wet, not with water, but with a slow, arterial bleed that stained George Carmichael’s thumb a deep, bruised purple. He held the document over the rain-slicked cobblestones of the Blackwood Estate courtyard, watching the dark fluid pool in the grooves of the stone, a visceral rejection of the bureaucratic order that had summoned him here at dawn. The air smelled of...
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