The Faded Chronicle
The fluorescent tube above the breakroom table buzzed with a low, persistent hum that seemed to drill directly into Elias Thorne’s temples. He sat rigid, his hands clasped around a mug of cold coffee, watching the light flicker in a rhythm that matched the tightening of his own chest. Miller stood by the vending machine, a stack of falsified infirmary logs in his hand, the paper edges soft and...
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