The Golden Oath
The dream was always the same: a close-up of his left hand, the knuckles white, the skin split open to reveal the jagged, gray shards of bone beneath. It was a visceral, ugly detail that Elias Thorne had stopped trying to forget three years ago, back when a bullet from a cartel runner had turned his hand into a puzzle box of shattered metacarpals. He woke in the dark, the phantom pain shooting...
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