The Distant Whispers
The air in the Capitol rotunda did not move, yet Elias Thorne felt the weight of it pressing against his eardrums like a deepening dive. He stood alone on the polished marble, forty-two years old and wearing a suit that had not been tailored since the funeral of his brother, clutching a sealed dossier to his chest with a grip that turned his knuckles white. The midday hearing was in twenty...
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