The Midnight Beast
The rain in Los Angeles did not wash things clean. It made everything wetter. Jack Morane knew this. He had lived in Los Angeles for twelve years, and in twelve years he had learned that the rain here was different from the rain anywhere else. It did not purify. It did not refresh. It just made the grime slicker, the neon signs bleed into the puddles, the shadows darker. Jack sat in his car on...
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