Zero Margin
The snow in Detroit didn't fall so much as it hovered, a perpetual gray mist that clung to the brickwork of abandoned factories like a second skin. Mike O'Brien had learned to love it after the plant closed, or perhaps he had learned to love the closure's absence. Either way, the damp cold of 2021 felt like punishment, and punishment was something he understood. He was thirty-six, a former line...
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