The Distant Journey
The bruise on Sergeant Elias Thorne’s jaw had turned a sickly yellow, blooming like a bruised peach against the pale skin of his cheekbone. It throbbed in time with the radiator’s clank, a rhythmic, metallic heartbeat that seemed to sync with the dull ache behind his eyes. He sat in the armchair by the window of his cramped apartment in Detroit, the winter light gray and thin as gauze. Outside,...
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