The Pale Fracture
The file was thin, barely three pages of yellowed stock, and it smelled of the ozone that clung to the incinerator vents in the east wing. Director Halloway did not look at you. He kept his eyes on the ledger in front of him, his pen moving in small, precise loops that marked the end of your tenure as a senior archivist. "Elias," he said, his voice flat, stripped of any inflection that might...
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