The Pale Garden
The sterile white of the Blackwood Institute does not smell of bleach, as you might expect from a facility of this magnitude, but of ozone and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clings to the back of your throat like a secret you are too afraid to speak. You are Elias Thorne, a federal agent of thirty-four years, and in your left hand you grip a vial of glass so thin it feels like...
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