The Golden Maze
Thorne, you are late. The voice came from the head of the long table, cutting through the low hum of the Meridian Consortium’s annual gala. Elias Thorne adjusted his tie, the silk feeling heavy and damp against his neck, and walked toward the center of the room. The banquet hall was a study in controlled excess. Crystal chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling, casting a cold, precise light over...
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