The Wistful Incense
The morphine vial was cold against Elias Thorne’s palm, a small, heavy truth in a world that had grown increasingly abstract. He checked the digital chart on the tablet, his fingers hovering over the screen with the precision of a man defusing a bomb, though the threat here was not explosive but bureaucratic. Julian lay in the sterile, white bed, his body reduced to a map of tubes and monitors,...
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