The Faded Sutra
The scanner’s red laser hummed a low, flat B-flat that vibrated in Elias Thorne’s molars, a sound that seemed to drill directly into the bone of his skull. He adjusted the haptic gloves, the synthetic leather stiff against his cracked knuckles, and watched the ink bleed from the ancient parchment like a slow, black hemorrhage. The document was a sutra, or what passed for one in the sterile,...
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