The Golden Downtown
The train did not stop at a station, but rather sank into the fog like a stone dropped into a deep, cold well, and when the doors opened, they did not release a crowd of passengers but a single, solitary figure who stepped out onto a platform made of polished obsidian. Elias Thorne was a man of few words and many scars, not on his skin, but in the architecture of his memory, and he carried with...
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