Beneath the Crimson Glow
The year was 1925, and New York was a city that had forgotten how to sleep. Jazz spilled from the basement bars of Harlem like liquid gold, stock brokers threw money at the sky and caught it, and on the streets of Manhattan, a hundred different dreams collided in a cacophony of ambition and desperation. I was one of those dreams. Or at least, I had been. My name is Robert Hudson, and I was...
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