The Faded Chronicle
"You’re asking me to burn the record, Elias." Marcus did not look up from his ledger. The pen in his hand stopped moving, then resumed, scratching a line of figures that seemed to have nothing to do with the air between us. The office smelled of stale coffee and the sharp, chemical tang of the new carpeting they had installed last month. I stood by the door, my hands still stained with the...
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