The Pale Shadows
Thorne. The voice cut through the hum of the boiler room, sharp and final, belonging to the night porter who had found me staring at the steam vents. I blinked, the condensation on my spectacles blurring his face into a gray smear, and wiped the glass with my sleeve. The smell hit me before the sight did: a thick, sulfurous rot mixed with the metallic tang of heated iron, the distinct odor of...
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