The Faded Masquerade
The rain in New London did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into black mirrors that reflected the broken neon of the district. Elias Thorne walked with his collar turned up, the damp seeping through the heavy wool of his coat. He had been crossing the city for three days, or perhaps three hours. Time had lost its rigidity here, in the Lower Wards,...
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