The Pale Exile
Haruto Shimizu remembered the weight of the paper before he remembered the ink. It was heavier than it looked, dense with the kind of bureaucratic finality that made the air in the room feel thin and hard to breathe. He stood at the edge of the riverbank, the white sky pressing down with a flat, shadowless intensity, and he thought about the day he had tried to sign his life away. The water...
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