The Neon Prey
The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash anything away; it only smeared the neon lights into iridescent oil slicks on the asphalt. Leo Cross sat in his unmarked sedan, the glow of a cigarette illuminating the deep lines of fatigue on his face. He was a detective with the LAPD, but the badge felt like a target. Three months ago, Leo had "returned." He remembered the Dimensional Directorate, the cold...
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