The Pale Door
The dictation key was pressed, the red light blinking with the steady, indifferent pulse of a heart monitor, as Elias Thorne sat in the center of his glass-walled office on the forty-second floor, his fingers hovering over the keyboard like a pianist afraid of striking a false note. He was fifty-four years old, an actuary who had spent three decades quantifying the probability of death, yet he...
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