The Pale Meridian
The pen tapped against the mahogany surface of the desk, a rhythmic, dry click that seemed to originate not from the instrument itself but from the very plaster of the walls, vibrating through the floorboards and into the soles of Elias Thorne’s shoes. He sat opposite Director Halloway, his hands folded tightly in his lap, the knuckles white with the effort of maintaining a stillness that felt...
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