The Pale Altar
You hold the red pen between your thumb and forefinger, the cap off, the tip dry but ready. It is a cheap ballpoint, the kind issued in bulk from the supply closet in the basement, the ink a harsh chemical crimson that stains the skin if you hold it too long. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, senior auditor in the Ministry of Internal Stability, and you have until Friday to finalize the...
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