The Pale Protocol
The first crack appeared on a Tuesday, thin as a hairline fracture in a porcelain cup, running from the zenith of the dome down toward the eastern rim, and you watched it with the detached horror of a man watching a vein burst in his own hand. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last three years in this isolated observatory, a place where the glass is not merely a...
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