The Pale Fracture
Zainal Syamsuddin’s hands were buried in the grit of the sub-basement, the file bit catching on a rusted gear that had not turned in forty years. He was thirty, his license lapsed, his professional identity stripped to the bone by the hum that had eaten through the crystal lenses of his laboratory three days prior. The noise was not demonic, as the Inquisitors of the Pale Order insisted, but...
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