The Golden Harbor
The ink on the ledger is still wet, a dark smear against the cream paper that feels less like pigment and more like dried blood. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and your hands are trembling, not from the cold that seeps through the floorboards of the Blackwood Estate study, but from the sheer, suffocating weight of the audit looming over you like a guillotine blade. You need to secure your...
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