The Golden Scar
The pen in your hand is a cheap thing, a stub of blue plastic that costs less than a cup of coffee, and yet your grip on it is white-knuckled, the knuckles aching with a dull, persistent throb. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, an archivist in the Ministry of Records, and you are currently trapped in the sub-basement of the building that employs you. The year is 1942. The light here...
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