The Ouroboros Circuit
(V-05: Film Noir) The rain in Los Angeles doesn't wash anything away; it just makes the grime shine. I sat in my office, the neon sign from the diner across the street blinking a rhythmic, bleeding red across my desk. I had a bottle of rye in the drawer and a hole in my soul the size of a basketball—the exact size of the thing that had stolen my parents twenty years ago. I called myself a...
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