The Wistful Silence
The light in the atrium was the flat, colorless white of a hospital ward, bouncing off the marble floors and the glass walls of the executive suites, a brightness that seemed to strip the color from Elias Thorne’s skin as he stood there, clutching a manila folder so tight his knuckles had turned the shade of old bone. He had counted the pages forty times in the taxi ride over, forty pages of...
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