The Pale Circus
You are standing in the shadow of the glass spire, the air thick with the scent of ozone and stale coffee, the kind of sterile cold that seeps into your bones and refuses to leave, and you are looking up at the penthouse window of Elias Thorne, the man who owns the city, who owns the sky above the city, who owns the very breath that passes through your lungs as you wait for him to notice you...
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