The Pale Meridian
The ink on the memo was still wet, a dark, viscous smear that Elias Thorne could have felt against his thumb if he had pressed it hard enough, but he did not press it; he only read the words, "Excessive Field Discretion," over and over until the letters blurred into a single, meaningless line of bureaucratic threat. He sat at the edge of his bed in the small, rented room above the chandler’s...
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