The Rain on 5th Avenue
The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash things clean; it only turned the dust into a grey slurry that coated everything in a layer of grime. Jack sat in his office, a room that smelled of stale cigarettes and old regrets, watching the neon sign of the diner across the street flicker in a rhythmic, dying pulse. He was a private investigator, which was a polite way of saying he was paid to find the...
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