He dreamed of the fog. It was thick. It tasted of rust. It tasted of old blood. He could not breathe. The air was solid. It pressed against his lungs. It squeezed them. He coughed. A black fluid came from his mouth. It was warm. It was wet. He looked down. His hands were red. The red spread. It climbed his wrists. It swallowed his elbows. He woke. The sheet was soaked. Cold. The room was dark. The silence was heavy. It sat on his chest. He lay still. He listened. The house creaked. The pipes groaned. The city slept. The city was sick.

He sat up. The floor was cold. The tiles were gray. They looked like stone. They looked like bone. He stood. His legs shook. He walked to the window. The glass was cold. He touched it. The world outside was gray. The fog rolled in. It ate the streets. It ate the lamps. It ate the buildings. The buildings were tall. They were black. They stood like giants. They stood like dead men. He looked at them. They looked at him. The fog was alive. It moved. It breathed. It wanted in.

He dressed. The uniform was stiff. The wool itched. The buttons were hard. He fastened them. One by one. The sound was loud. It echoed. He picked up his hat. The leather was soft. It was worn. It fit his head. It fit his skull. He put it on. It was dark. He walked to the door. The wood was old. It was cracked. He opened it. The hallway was dark. The light was dim. It was yellow. It buzzed. He walked down the stairs. The steps creaked. Each step was a sound. Each sound was a warning. He reached the street. The fog was there. It was thick. It was white. It was cold. He stepped into it. The fog took him.

He walked. The street was empty. No cars. No people. No sound. Only the fog. It wrapped around him. It held him. It was gentle. It was strong. He walked to the precinct. The building was black. It was stone. It stood in the fog. The doors were iron. They were heavy. He pushed them. The sound was deep. It rumbled. He stepped inside. The heat hit him. The air was dry. It smelled of dust. It smelled of fear. The desk was empty. No one was there. The clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was loud. It was fast. It was wrong. He looked at the clock. The hands were spinning. They moved too fast. The numbers blurred. He closed his eyes. He opened them. The clock stopped. The hands were still. The number was twelve.

He walked down the hall. The floor was marble. It was polished. It reflected the dim light. He saw his reflection. It was pale. It was thin. His eyes were dark. They were deep. They held a secret. He walked on. The door at the end was open. The light was blue. It was cold. It was bright. He stepped in. The room was empty. The walls were white. They were bare. The floor was bare. The air was still. In the center of the room was a chair. It was wooden. It was old. It was empty. He walked to it. He sat. The wood was cold. It bit his skin. He waited.

The fog came. It seeped in. It crept under the door. It slithered across the floor. It climbed the walls. It filled the room. The air turned cold. The breath left his lungs. It became mist. The mist turned to fog. The fog turned to solid. It pressed against him. It held him. He could not move. He could not breathe. He felt the weight. It was heavy. It was infinite. It was the weight of the city. It was the weight of the dead. It was the weight of his sins. He tried to push it away. He pushed. He strained. His muscles tore. His skin split. Blood ran. It mixed with the fog. The fog turned red. It was warm. It was wet. It was alive.

He screamed. The sound was silent. It did not travel. It stayed in his throat. It burned. He coughed. The blood came again. It was black. It was thick. He fell. The chair tipped. He hit the floor. The impact was hard. It rattled his teeth. It shook his bones. He lay there. The fog covered him. It buried him. He was gone. He was part of it. He was part of the city.

He woke again. The sheet was dry. The room was bright. The sun was up. The light was white. It was sharp. He looked at the clock. It was eight. The hands moved slowly. The tick was steady. He sat up. He felt light. He felt clean. He stood. He walked to the window. The fog was gone. The streets were clear. The cars moved. The people walked. The city was alive. The city was healthy. He smiled. The smile was small. It was real. He washed his face. The water was cold. It was clear. He dried his face. The towel was soft. He dressed. The uniform was clean. The wool was soft. The buttons were smooth. He fastened them. The sound was quiet. It was soft. He picked up his hat. The leather was new. It was stiff. It fit his head. It fit his skull. He put it on. It was light.

He walked out. The air was fresh. It smelled of rain. It smelled of life. He walked to the precinct. The building was gray. It was stone. It stood in the sun. The doors were iron. They were heavy. He pushed them. The sound was deep. It rumbled. He stepped inside. The heat hit him. The air was dry. It smelled of coffee. It smelled of paper. The desk was full. The papers were high. The phones rang. The sound was loud. It was sharp. It was alive. He walked down the hall. The floor was marble. It was polished. It reflected the bright light. He saw his reflection. It was strong. It was whole. His eyes were clear. They were bright. They held a hope. He walked on. The door at the end was closed. The light was yellow. It was warm. It was soft. He opened it. The room was full. The walls were blue. They were painted. The floor was carpeted. The air was warm. In the center of the room was a desk. It was wooden. It was new. It was empty. He walked to it. He sat. The wood was warm. It held him. He waited.

The fog came. It seeped in. It crept under the door. It slithered across the floor. It climbed the walls. It filled the room. The air turned cold. The breath left his lungs. It became mist. The mist turned to fog. The fog turned to solid. It pressed against him. It held him. He could not move. He could not breathe. He felt the weight. It was heavy. It was infinite. It was the weight of the city. It was the weight of the dead. It was the weight of his sins. He tried to push it away. He pushed. He strained. His muscles tore. His skin split. Blood ran. It mixed with the fog. The fog turned red. It was warm. It was wet. It was alive.

He screamed. The sound was silent. It did not travel. It stayed in his throat. It burned. He coughed. The blood came again. It was black. It was thick. He fell. The chair tipped. He hit the floor. The impact was hard. It rattled his teeth. It shook his bones. He lay there. The fog covered him. It buried him. He was gone. He was part of it. He was part of the city.

He woke. The sheet was wet. The room was dark. The silence was heavy. It sat on his chest. He lay still. He listened. The house creaked. The pipes groaned. The city slept. The city was sick. He sat up. The floor was cold. The tiles were gray. They looked like stone. They looked like bone. He stood. His legs shook. He walked to the window. The glass was cold. He touched it. The world outside was gray. The fog rolled in. It ate the streets. It ate the lamps. It ate the buildings. The buildings were tall. They were black. They stood like giants. They stood like dead men. He looked at them. They looked at him. The fog was alive. It moved. It breathed. It wanted in.

He dressed. The uniform was stiff. The wool itched. The buttons were hard. He fastened them. One by one. The sound was loud. It echoed. He picked up his hat. The leather was soft. It was worn. It fit his head. It fit his skull. He put it on. It was dark. He walked to the door. The wood was old. It was cracked. He opened it. The hallway was dark. The light was dim. It was yellow. It buzzed. He walked down the stairs. The steps creaked. Each step was a sound. Each sound was a warning. He reached the street. The fog was there. It was thick. It was white. It was cold. He stepped into it. The fog took him.

He walked. The street was empty. No cars. No people. No sound. Only the fog. It wrapped around him. It held him. It was gentle. It was strong. He walked to the precinct. The building was black. It was stone. It stood in the fog. The doors were iron. They were heavy. He pushed them. The sound was deep. It rumbled. He stepped inside. The heat hit him. The air was dry. It smelled of dust. It smelled of fear. The desk was empty. No one was there. The clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was loud. It was fast. It was wrong. He looked at the clock. The hands were spinning. They moved too fast. The numbers blurred. He closed his eyes. He opened them. The clock stopped. The hands were still. The number was twelve.

He walked down the hall. The floor was marble. It was polished. It reflected the dim light. He saw his reflection. It was pale. It was thin. His eyes were dark. They were deep. They held a secret. He walked on. The door at the end was open. The light was blue. It was cold. It was bright. He stepped in. The room was empty. The walls were white. They were bare. The floor was bare. The air was still. In the center of the room was a chair. It was wooden. It was old. It was empty. He walked to it. He sat. The wood was cold. It bit his skin. He waited.

The fog came. It seeped in. It crept under the door. It slithered across the floor. It climbed the walls. It filled the room. The air turned cold. The breath left his lungs. It became mist. The mist turned to fog. The fog turned to solid. It pressed against him. It held him. He could not move. He could not breathe. He felt the weight. It was heavy. It was infinite. It was the weight of the city. It was the weight of the dead. It was the weight of his sins. He tried to push it away. He pushed. He strained. His muscles tore. His skin split. Blood ran. It mixed with the fog. The fog turned red. It was warm. It was wet. It was alive.

He screamed. The sound was silent. It did not travel. It stayed in his throat. It burned. He coughed. The blood came again. It was black. It was thick. He fell. The chair tipped. He hit the floor. The impact was hard. It rattled his teeth. It shook his bones. He lay there. The fog covered him. It buried him. He was gone. He was part of it. He was part of the city.

He woke. The sheet was dry. The room was bright. The sun was up. The light was white. It was sharp. He looked at the clock. It was eight. The hands moved slowly. The tick was steady. He sat up. He felt light. He felt clean. He stood. He walked to the window. The fog was gone. The streets were clear. The cars moved. The people walked. The city was alive. The city was healthy. He smiled. The smile was small. It was real. He washed his face. The water was cold. It was clear. He dried his face. The towel was soft. He dressed. The uniform was clean. The wool was soft. The buttons were smooth. He fastened them. The sound was quiet. It was soft. He picked up his hat. The leather was new. It was stiff. It fit his head. It fit his skull. He put it on. It was light.

He walked out. The air was fresh. It smelled of rain. It smelled of life. He walked to the precinct. The building was gray. It was stone. It stood in the sun. The doors were iron. They were heavy. He pushed them. The sound was deep. It rumbled. He stepped inside. The heat hit him. The air was dry. It smelled of coffee. It smelled of paper. The desk was full. The papers were high. The phones rang. The sound was loud. It was sharp. It was alive. He walked down the hall. The floor was marble. It was polished. It reflected the bright light. He saw his reflection. It was strong. It was whole. His eyes were clear. They were bright. They held a hope. He walked on. The door at the end was closed. The light was yellow. It was warm. It was soft. He opened it. The room was full. The walls were blue. They were painted. The floor was carpeted. The air was warm. In the center of the room was a desk. It was wooden. It was new. It was empty. He walked to it. He sat. The wood was warm. It held him. He waited.

The fog came. It seeped in. It crept under the door. It slithered across the floor. It climbed the walls. It filled the room. The air turned cold. The breath left his lungs. It became mist. The mist turned to fog. The fog turned to solid. It pressed against him. It held him. He could not move. He could not breathe. He felt the weight. It was heavy. It was infinite. It was the weight of the city. It was the weight of the dead. It was the weight of his sins. He tried to push it away. He pushed. He strained. His muscles tore. His skin split. Blood ran. It mixed with the fog. The fog turned red. It was warm. It was wet. It was alive.

He screamed. The sound was silent. It did not travel. It stayed in his throat. It burned. He coughed. The blood came again. It was black. It was thick. He fell. The chair tipped. He hit the floor. The impact was hard. It rattled his teeth. It shook his bones. He lay there. The fog covered him. It buried him. He was gone. He was part of it. He was part of the city.

He woke. The sheet was wet. The room was dark. The silence was heavy. It sat on his chest. He lay still. He listened. The house creaked. The pipes groaned. The city slept. The city was sick. He sat up. The floor was cold. The tiles were gray. They looked like stone. They looked like bone. He stood. His legs shook. He walked to the window. The glass was cold. He touched it. The world outside was gray. The fog rolled in. It ate the streets. It ate the lamps. It ate the buildings. The buildings were tall. They were black. They stood like giants. They stood like dead men. He looked at them. They looked at him. The fog was alive. It moved. It breathed. It wanted in.

He dressed. The uniform was stiff. The wool itched. The buttons were hard. He fastened them. One by one. The sound was loud. It echoed. He picked up his hat. The leather was soft. It was worn. It fit his head. It fit his skull. He put it on. It was dark. He walked to the door. The wood was old. It was cracked. He opened it. The hallway was dark. The light was dim. It was yellow. It buzzed. He walked down the stairs. The steps creaked. Each step was a sound. Each sound was a warning. He reached the street. The fog was there. It was thick. It was white. It was cold. He stepped into it. The fog took him.

He walked. The street was empty. No cars. No people. No sound. Only the fog. It wrapped around him. It held him. It was gentle. It was strong. He walked to the precinct. The building was black. It was stone. It stood in the fog. The doors were iron. They were heavy. He pushed them. The sound was deep. It rumbled. He stepped inside. The heat hit him. The air was dry. It smelled of dust. It smelled of fear. The desk was empty. No one was there. The clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was loud. It was fast. It was wrong. He looked at the clock. The hands were spinning. They moved too fast. The numbers blurred. He closed his eyes. He opened them. The clock stopped. The hands were still. The number was twelve.

He walked down the hall. The floor was marble. It was polished. It reflected the dim light. He saw his reflection. It was pale. It was thin. His eyes were dark. They were deep. They held a secret. He walked on. The door at the end was open. The light was blue. It was cold. It was bright. He stepped in. The room was empty. The walls were white. They were bare. The floor was bare. The air was still. In the center of the room was a chair. It was wooden. It was old. It was empty. He walked to it. He sat. The wood was cold. It bit his skin. He waited.

The fog came. It seeped in. It crept under the door. It slithered across the floor. It climbed the walls. It filled the room. The air turned cold. The breath left his lungs. It became mist. The mist turned to fog. The fog turned to solid. It pressed against him. It held him. He could not move. He could not breathe. He felt the weight. It was heavy. It was infinite. It was the weight of the city. It was the weight of the dead. It was the weight of his sins. He tried to push it away. He pushed. He strained. His muscles tore. His skin split. Blood ran. It mixed with the fog. The fog turned red. It was warm. It was wet. It was alive.

He screamed. The sound was silent. It did not travel. It stayed in his throat. It burned. He coughed. The blood came again. It was black. It was thick. He fell. The chair tipped. He hit the floor. The impact was hard. It rattled his teeth. It shook his bones. He lay there. The fog covered him. It buried him. He was gone. He was part of it. He was part of the city.