The Rain-Slicked Erasure
The rain in Los Angeles didn't wash things clean; it only smeared the grime into a more permanent glaze. Elias sat in his office, a space that smelled of stale tobacco and the slow evaporation of hope. The neon sign of the hotel across the street flickered in a rhythmic, neurotic pulse—red, blue, red, blue—casting long, bleeding shadows across his desk. Elias was a private investigator who...
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