The Pale Protocol
The gaslight in my office at the Ministry of Internal Revenue flickers with a yellow, sickly pulse, casting long, trembling shadows across the desk where I sit, my hands shaking so violently that the ink threatens to spill over the edge of the ledger. It is the fourteenth of November, 1893, and I am writing to you, Julian, though I know you will not answer, for you have already stolen what is...
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