The Pale Protocol
The manifest lay on the steel table, the paper yellowed at the edges, the ink still wet and bleeding into the grain. You stared at the signature line, your hand hovering, the pen a cold weight in your palm. The light from the high window cut a sharp, dusty beam across the room, illuminating the dust motes that swirled in the stagnant air. Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the...
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