The Wistful Incense
The needle pierced the vein of the boy’s wrist with a wet, sucking sound that seemed to amplify in the sudden silence of the interrogation room, and Elias Thorne watched the fluid drain from the syringe into the flesh with the detached precision of a man who had not slept in three days. He was not a monster, he told himself, adjusting the brass rim of his left lens to catch the slant of...
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