The Pale Exile
The counter on the terminal read 03:14:09. You count the seconds like stitches in a wound, each one pulling tight against the skin of the night. The Meridian reinsurance deal requires your final sign-off by Friday, a deadline that hangs in the air like a noose made of fiber optics and quarterly projections. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a senior actuary whose life has been reduced to a...
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