The Pale Verdict
Thorne. The name hung in the air, sharp and cold. You looked up from the manifest. Director Vance stood at the edge of the warehouse floor, his tie loosened, his face a mask of polite exhaustion. He was not shouting. He did not need to. The silence between you was heavy, thick with the dust of the shipping crates and the low, persistent hum that lived in the walls. You were fifty-two years old....
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