The Wistful Skyline
The steam from the radiator hissed in a low, constant drone that filled the narrow holding cell of the precinct station, a sound that had become the only rhythm to which Elias Thorne’s heart would beat over the past three days. He sat on the wooden bench, his knees drawn up to his chest, his heavy wool coat still wrapped around his shoulders despite the stifling heat of the industrial boiler...
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