The Pale Protocol
The date is November 14, 1912, and the ink in my hand trembles not from the cold that seeps through the single-pane glass of this room in the Hill District, but from the sheer, grinding exhaustion of a body that has been hollowed out by the coal and the debt alike. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, and I have spent the last six hours scrubbing ledgers for the Pittsburgh Iron and Coal...
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