The rain in New Carthage doesn't fall so much as materialize, like someone's been leaking the sky. I've lived with the sound of it for forty-seven years and I still hate it. It's the sound of a city that can't decide whether to be wet or drowned.
My name is Jack Morrow. I used to be in the Safety Bureau—top marks, clean record, the kind of cop who believed in the job until the job decided I was an inconvenience. Now I'm a private investigator with a prosthetic right arm from a black-market surgeon in the Dockside and a left eye that sees slightly better than the real one but costs half as much and looks like a dead fish. The case came...
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