The Pale Circus
The ink on the form was still wet, a dark, viscous pool that refused to dry under the harsh glare of the electric bulb, and Elias Thorne’s hand trembled as he pressed his thumb against the signature line, the skin of his arm pulling tight against the jagged, fading scar that had begun to split three days prior. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper was the only noise in the intake...
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