The Pale Path
Thorne, you’re bleeding on the floor again. The voice is not Halloway’s, though it carries the same flat, bureaucratic indifference that strips the flesh from a man’s ambition. It is the voice of the machine, a low, metallic hum that vibrates in the marrow of your bones, a sound you have come to recognize as the heartbeat of the Blackwood Textile Mill itself. You are Elias Thorne, a...
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