The Distant Joke
The brass badge sits in your left pocket, heavy against your hip like a stone in a riverbed. It is not a badge of honor, but a token of your office, stamped with the seal of the City Constabulary, the ink faded by years of sweat and the cold, damp air of the Northern District. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne. For twenty years, you have walked these streets, a silhouette against the gaslight, a...
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