The Man Who Chose the Light
The bell above the gym door rang at seven o'clock, and Tom Callahan stepped onto the canvas like a man stepping onto a stage. He was twenty-eight years old, and his knuckles were already scarred from three years of professional boxing. The gym smelled of sweat and liniment and old leather, and the single bare bulb overhead swung gently in the draft, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across...
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