The Pale Mist
The rain in Manchester does not wash the city clean; it merely slicks the grime onto the cobblestones, making the streets of the industrial district shine with a wet, oily sheen that reflects the gaslight in distorted, trembling pools. You stand at the edge of the factory floor, your boots heavy with mud, watching the steam rise from the cooling vats, a thick, white fog that curls around your...
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