The Puppet's Gambit
The rain in New York didn't wash anything away; it only made the grime shine. Marcus leaned against a brick wall in Hell's Kitchen, the collar of his trench coat turned up against the chill. He was an analyst by trade, a man who could see the patterns in the noise, the signal in the static. But since the Incident, the patterns had become too clear. He could see the ripples of events before they...
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