The Golden Myth
The ink was already bleeding when Elias Thorne opened the folder. It spread in slow, viscous tendrils across the vellum, a dark stain that defied the dry, sterile air of the reading room. He watched it with the clinical detachment of a man observing a tumor, his breath held tight in his chest. The scent of decay was thick here, a cloying sweetness that seemed to rise from the floorboards...
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