The Pale Bonsai
It is a trap, Elias. You know it is a trap. Marcus stands by the heavy oak desk, his fingers drumming a nervous, irregular rhythm against the spine of a leather-bound ledger, and the fluorescent lights above him buzz with the flat, dead frequency of a dying insect. He is a man of forty, slight of build, with the kind of pale, washed-out skin that suggests a life spent entirely indoors, under...
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