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... nst the cracked stone road, the rhythm oddly jarring against the silence inside.
Atlas sat with his legs stretched forward, one boot tapping unconsciously against the brass latch on the bench. The file sat in his lap like a slab of iron—too heavy, too damning. His fingers were smudged with ink, pages dog-eared and scrawled with frantic marginalia. The smell of parchment, sweat, and old blood clung to the air like smoke.
He turned the last page again, as if this time the truth mig ...
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