The Pale Bridge
The hand of Director Halloway trembled, not from age, but from the specific, cold fury of a man whose inventory had been breached, and he slammed a manila folder onto the scarred oak desk, sending a cloud of dust and dried tea leaves into the stagnant air of the archive room. Elias Thorne sat opposite, his fingers laced tightly in his lap, watching the dust motes dance in the single shaft of...
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