The Pale Protocol
Act I Crescencio Escobedo, thirty-four years old and junior archivist, woke at three in the morning to the sound of the hospital gong, a dull thud that vibrated through the floorboards of the conventillo. He lay still, counting the seconds between the impacts, noting how the rhythm matched the erratic flutter of his own heart. The grey October light had not yet broken the horizon, but the air...
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