The Clockwork Verdict
The rain in Neon-Spires didn't fall; it leaked, a greasy, iridescent drizzle that smelled of ozone and desperation. In this city, Time was not a concept; it was a currency. The elite, the "Centurions," lived in the floating gardens of the Upper Tier, their accounts swollen with stolen centuries. The rest of us, the "Seconds," scraped by in the gutters, trading a week of our lives for a month's...
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