Neon and Shrapnel
The rain in Berlin did not wash anything clean. It simply made the filth slicker, turned the ash and blood and pulverized brick into a paste that coated everything in a gray film that no amount of scrubbing could remove. Jack Morane stood on the corner of Unter den Linden and watched the rain fall, his trench coat heavy with water, his cigarette burning down to the filter between fingers that...
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