The Pale Protocol
The ink is drying on the page, but the stone behind my desk is wet, a dark, viscous substance oozing from the mortar joints like a slow, black bleed that has no business existing in a dry archive. I am Elias Thorne, and I have been writing these entries for three months, every single day, because the alternative is to look at Clara’s body in the room next door and see the stillness that is not...
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