The Faded Portrait
The brush in Elias Thorne’s hand trembled, a fine, high-frequency vibration that matched the hum of the climate control unit buried in the wall. He was standing in the center of his own workshop, a sealed, climate-controlled cube of white light and sterile air, holding a cracked oil portrait of his late father. Around him, the gala had not yet begun, but the anticipation of it was a physical...
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