The Pale Dance
The ledger lay open on the desk, its leather cover worn smooth by six years of Elias Thorne’s touch, the pages stiff with the particular dryness of a room where the heating system had been broken for two weeks. He held a fountain pen in his right hand, the nib hovering a millimeter above the grid of numbers, his fingertips already tingling with that familiar, low-grade heat that had become the...
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