The Faded Root
Act I "You are bleeding onto the ledger, Francisco." The smell hit me before the sight of it, a thick, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat like the residue of a bad coin, and I looked down to see the ink pooling in the creases of my knuckles, black and viscous, refusing to be absorbed by the cheap paper I held. I am thirty-four years old, and I have spent the last decade inspecting...
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