Noir Justice
The neon signs of 1947 Los Angeles bled into the wet pavement, turning the streets into a kaleidoscope of artificial colors and deep, suffocating shadows. Marcus Thorne operated out of an office that was essentially a closet with a window overlooking a pawn shop. He was a man who had once believed in the Law with a capital L, until the Law had chewed him up and spat him out. Now, he took the...
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