The Faded Paradox
The tremor in Arthur Vane’s left hand was a quiet, mechanical thing, a rattle of loose gears behind the skin that announced his presence before he did. It was a degenerative nerve condition, the doctor had said, a slow theft of grip that would eventually render him incapable of holding a glass, let alone a fist. Arthur sat in his office on the fourth floor of the old textile exchange, the...
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