Neon Rain and Cold Lead
The rain in this city doesn't wash anything away; it just moves the filth from one alley to another. I sat in my office, the neon sign from the diner across the street flickering a rhythmic, sickly pink across my desk. I had a bottle of cheap rye and a folder full of secrets that nobody wanted to pay for. Then she walked in. She didn't look like the usual kind of trouble. She looked like the...
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