The Pale Letter
The rain in the city did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, a black varnish that reflected the neon bleeding from the storefronts of Fifth Avenue. Elias Thorne stood under the awning of a closed dry cleaner, his tactical vest heavy against his ribs, the dampness seeping into the wool of his trousers, turning the fabric into a cold, clinging second skin. He was a man carved...
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