The rain in Blackwater City did not wash things clean. It made everything darker. The streets gleamed like wet leather, the neon signs bled their colours into the puddles, and the shadows between the buildings seemed to grow longer with each passing hour.
Jack Morrison sat in his office on the fourth floor of a building that had once been something respectable before the war and had since become something else entirely. The desk was second-hand, the chair squeaked when you sat down, and the window looked out onto an alley where a cat was eating something that Jack preferred not to identify. He was a private detective by day and a courier by...
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