The Pale Protocol
The date is the fourteenth of November, and the ink in my hand is black and thick, mixing with the blood that will not stop seeping from the fissures in my palm. I write this by the light of a single tallow candle, the flame guttering in the draft that whistles through the cracks of the stone walls, while Major Halloway stands over me, his silhouette a rigid block of authority against the dark....
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