The Pale Tower
The termination notice lay on the steel desk, the ink still wet, a black smear against the beige paper that smelled of toner and stale coffee. Elias Thorne did not read it; he had read it three times already, the words blurring into a single, dense block of bureaucratic finality that stripped twenty years of service down to a single, cold number: zero. He was fifty-four, and the facility where...
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