The Faded Paradox
The coffee was cold, a thick, black sludge that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s throat with a grittiness that felt like swallowing coal dust, and he drank it anyway because the ritual was the only thing holding his hands steady in the damp, coal-smoke-choked air of the precinct. He sat in the interrogation room, a box of wood and iron that smelled of wet wool and old sweat, watching Silas...
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