The Faded Alibi
The brass compass in your palm feels warm, not with heat, but with a low, vibrating hum that travels up your wrist and settles behind your eyes like a migraine that has forgotten to break. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you have held this confiscated item for three hours, watching the needle twitch not toward magnetic north, but toward the east wing where the new inmate, Silas, is being...
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