The Golden Farce
The fragment of gold sits in your palm, heavy as a coin of old lead, its edge sharp enough to draw a bead of blood that mixes with the dust of the archive. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and the office is silent save for the hum of the ventilation system, a low drone that vibrates in your teeth. You hold the shard up to the fluorescent light, watching the fractured surface distort...
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