The Pale Protocol
The rain lashed against the carriage windows, blurring the world into a smear of grey and green as the train groaned toward its final stop. Elias Thorne sat rigid in his seat, his knuckles white around the leather satchel that held the only thing he had left of his father: a sealed ledger, cold to the touch, humming with a low, subsonic vibration that rattled his teeth. He was forty-two, a...
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