The Faded Alibi
The leather of the belt creaks as you tighten the buckle, the sound sharp and dry in the small office, cutting through the low hum of the ventilation unit. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and you are holding onto the last piece of yourself that still fits. The light from the single desk lamp is yellow and sickly, casting long, distorted shadows against the wall where maps of the...
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