The Golden Ritual
Thorne. The name hung in the air of the evidence locker, cold and sharp as the steel shelves lining the walls. Elias Thorne stood in the dim light, his hand hovering over a crate of rusted metal, his knuckles white. He was forty-two, with a back that ached when the barometric pressure dropped and a pension that was three years away. Three years. He had counted the days since the audit notice...
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