The Pale Protocol
The ink is smearing. My left hand is trembling, and it is not from the cold, though the London fog presses against the windowpane like a wet, grey cloth. I am Elias Thorne. I am thirty-four years old, and I am writing this to record what has happened at the Sterling Foundry, for if I do not write it down, I fear I will forget that I was ever a man at all. I want only one thing: to pay the debt...
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