The Pale Bridge
The ink moves when you are not looking. You know this. You have known it since the first shift, three nights ago, when you woke in the subterranean office of the Harrowgate Coal Processing Plant with your fingers stained violet-black to the second knuckle. You are Elias Thorne. You are forty-two. You are here because the contract says you are here, and because the memory of the men who died in...
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