The Pale Protocol
Jiro Matsumoto looked back at the wet, sticky surface of the box he had spent six months polishing, and he knew, with the dull certainty of a man who has read his own autopsy report, that he would not see it dry. The workshop in the snow country village was quiet, save for the low, out-of-tune hum of the piano in the big house next door, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards...
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