The Pale Fracture
The report lay in Elias Thorne’s hands, a single sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper that smelled faintly of ozone and dried lye. He turned it over, feeling the weight of the ink, the deliberate precision of his own handwriting, as if the words were physical objects he had carved from stone. Outside the windowless transit hub of the New Meridian, the wind screeched against the reinforced glass,...
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