The Pale Meridian
The ink on the form was still wet, a dark smear against the white paper that Elias Thorne held with fingers that had not fully recovered from the cold of the morning commute, and he watched the shadow of the pen in Major Halloway’s hand stretch across the desk, detaching slightly from the metal tip to pool on the wood like spilled oil. Halloway did not look up; his eyes remained fixed on the...
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