The Pale Tale
Thorne, you are bleeding on the record again. Sergeant Elias Thorne did not look up from the ledger, his fingers stiff and swollen, the ink of his pen smearing into a dark, wet pool on the page, a stain that spread with a slow, viscous creep that defied the dryness of the winter air. The cell was a cube of stone and silence, a space so confined that the sound of his own breathing, a wet,...
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