The Golden Downtown
The rain does not wash the city clean; it merely slicks the grime into a darker, more viscous layer that clings to the brickwork and the bones of the men who walk its streets. You are standing in the center of a room that smells of stale coffee, wet wool, and the metallic tang of fear, the fluorescent lights above humming a low, electric hymn that vibrates in the teeth. This is the precinct, a...
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