The Pale Verdict
The ink was dry, but the stain was not. I checked my collar in the mirror of the barracks, tracing the faint, ghostly outline of a verdict that had not yet been written. My daughter’s wedding was in three days. I needed to be there. I needed to clear my name. The Bureau called my recent episodes insubordination, a label that sat heavy in my file like a stone in a shoe. I was Elias Thorne,...
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