The Pale Path
Thorne. The name was spat by the rain against the window of the interrogation room, a wet, rhythmic scolding that matched the pulse in Elias Thorne’s temples. He sat on the metal chair, the cold seeping through his trousers, and watched the ink on his hands. It was not paint, not dye, but a living, glowing substance that pulsed a faint, sickly amber under the fluorescent lights. It had started...
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