The Distant Metropolis
The air in the office tasted of formaldehyde and old paper, a sterile sharpness that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the smell of failure. He sat behind a desk of polished mahogany, his hands resting on the surface, fingers twitching slightly as if trying to grip something invisible. In his left hand, wrapped in a handkerchief, sat the vial. It was small, no larger than a thimble,...
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