The Pale Dance
The ink on the page was dry, but the air in the reading room was not. Elias Thorne adjusted his spectacles, the wire rims digging into the bridge of his nose, and stared at the marginalia. The script was cramped, angular, and unmistakably his own. It read: *Negligence. Termination effective immediately.* He blinked, waiting for the blur to resolve into the standard, faded brown of the...
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