The Golden Master
The tape measure in Elias Thorne’s hand snapped taut against the edge of the oak desk, the brass end digging into his palm as he tried to gauge the distance between his resignation and the door. He was forty-two, an archivist of mid-level rank in a firm that smelled permanently of ozone and dried ink, and he wanted nothing more than to leave this city before the sun set on his dignity. His...
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