The Wistful Silence
Thorne. The name hung in the wet air of the courtyard, called out by a guard whose voice was muffled by the downpour. Elias Thorne did not turn. He stood before the glass of the visiting block, his hand pressed flat against the cold pane, watching Marcus Vane. The judge sat in the chair on the other side, his posture relaxed, his eyes holding a familiarity that felt less like recognition and...
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