The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-17 17:50:17 -

The wind smelled of rust and wet iron. It cut through the gaps in Silas Vane’s coat, a cold that went straight to the bone. He stood on the precipice of the abandoned rail yard, his revolver heavy in his right hand. The cylinder was empty. He had spent the last of his rounds ten seconds ago, or perhaps a minute. Time had become viscous, thick as the sludge that coated the wheels of the freight...

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