The Distant Metropolis
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell on the grey asphalt of the interstate like a fine, persistent mist, blurring the white lines that marked the boundary between the legal and the void. I sat in the driver’s seat of the unmarked sedan, my hands resting on the leather wheel, knuckles white. Beside me, Thomas Bradshaw sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the wipers’ rhythmic, mechanical...
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