The Golden Myth
The ink had not yet dried on the final line of the quarterly report when Arthur Vane’s hand trembled, a fine, involuntary shiver that betrayed the exhaustion of a man who had not slept in two days. He pressed his thumb against the wet black stroke, smearing it into a dark, bruised smear that looked less like a signature and more like a wound. Outside the window of his cramped office in the...
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