The Pale Exile
The file folder was thick, its cardboard spine cracked and soft from the damp. Elias Thorne held it in both hands, the leather of his gloves worn thin at the knuckles, feeling the grit of the station’s concrete floor through the soles of his boots. He was forty-two, a border patrol sergeant with twenty years of service, and he was here to prove he had not deserted his post. The Bureau’s view...
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