The Noir Soul
The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash anything away; it just smeared the grime into a more iridescent shade of grey. I sat in my office on the fourth floor of a building that smelled of wet wool and stale tobacco, watching the neon sign of the diner across the street flicker in a rhythmic, dying pulse. My name is Elias Thorne, and I specialize in "spiritual retrieval." In this city, the dead...
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