The Pale Meridian
The air in the boardroom tasted of ozone, sharp and metallic, cutting through the stale recirculated scent of dry-erase markers and cold coffee. You stood at the head of the mahogany table, your fingers trembling slightly as you adjusted the laser pointer, the red dot hovering uncertainly over the projected actuarial tables. Arthur Vane sat at the far end, his posture relaxed, a study in casual...
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