The Faded Paradox
"Let it happen." The voice in Thorne’s earpiece was flat, stripped of inflection, the kind of tone reserved for reading out casualty reports or approving budget cuts. Thorne stood in the courtyard of the Federal Detention Center, the rain slicking the concrete until it mirrored the jagged red of the emergency lights. He was thirty-four, six years into his service, and his hand was already on...
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