The Golden Downtown
The knife bit into the leather spine with a sound like a dry branch snapping. Elias Thorne did not look up from the ledger, his thumb pressing the fresh groove of the letter M into the binding. The ink he used for his notes had a peculiar property, a trait he had observed for three years without comment or fear. It began as a standard black iron gall, but within an hour of drying, it shifted to...
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