The Faded Chronicle
The rain against the single pane of the Blackwater Station window was not merely wet but corrosive, a relentless industrial drizzle that turned the soot on the glass into a slick, black slurry, and Dr. Elias Thorne stood before the desk, his hand trembling slightly as he uncorked the small, stoppered vial of chronic ink, the liquid inside moving with the sluggish, heavy viscosity of old blood...
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