The Neon Noir of Regret
The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash anything away; it just smeared the grime into a more iridescent pattern. Jack sat in his office, the neon sign of the "Blue Velvet" lounge across the street blinking a rhythmic, sickly pink across his desk. He was thirty-six, a private investigator who specialized in finding things people wanted to stay lost, and a man who had spent a decade drowning his...
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