The Golden Master
The fog was thick, tasting of copper and old pennies. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his cell, watching the grey sludge creep up the brickwork of the constabulary station. His left hand, the one that had been his for thirty-four years, now looked less like flesh and more like a rusted hinge. The skin was pulled tight over something that ticked. He flexed the fingers. They did not move with...
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