The Pale Protocol
Act I Giuseppa Sartori owed forty lire to the man who owned the building where she slept, and the rain had not stopped for seven days. It came sideways, striking the glass of the workshop window with the force of a physical blow, a relentless, gray assault that turned the canal water into a churning, opaque slurry. She stood before the counter, her hands trembling not from cold but from the...
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