The Distant Metropolis
The fog rolled in from the river not as a mist, but as a heavy, wet wool blanket that strangled the cobblestones of Millhaven. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the eardrums, a physical weight that made the air feel thick and stale. Elias Thorne stood before the mirror in the cramped back room of the tailor shop, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the collar of his...
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