The Pale Fracture
The intake form lay on the steel tray, its edges curling slightly from the humidity of the ventilation system, and you read the fine print for the third time, your finger tracing the signature line where your name, Elias Thorne, was already printed in a font that looked too thin to hold the weight of the ink. The paper smelled of ozone and cheap toner, a scent that had begun to define your...
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