The Pale Bonsai
The ink on the ledger was still wet when Vane slid the glasses across the desk, the black rims catching the gaslight like two hollow eyes. You pick them up. The lenses are thick, heavy, and cold against your fingertips. You have been staring at the mortality tables for the new industrial risk class for three hours, the numbers swimming in a grey fog that you refuse to name. Your hand trembles...
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