The Pale Path
The entry in the ledger read: One vial, pale extract, for Sergeant Hubert. Tax paid. Marcel Hubert stood in the damp corner of the infirmary, the glass vial warm and slick against his palm, the liquid inside trembling with a viscosity that defied the stillness of the room. The air smelled of wet wool, diesel from the generator outside, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that always preceded...
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