The Pale Tale
The ledger counted the hours, not the men. Arthur Vane sat at the desk in the administrative office, the pen heavy in his right hand, and watched the ink blotch on the paper where his grip had faltered. Outside, the Whitmore Ironworks hummed, a low, grinding vibration that rose through the floorboards and settled in his molars. He had been on the assembly line for six years, and in that time,...
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