The Wistful Crossroads
The rain did not fall so much as it pressed. It was a heavy, industrial grey, the color of wet slate and old blood, hammering against the corrugated iron roof of the intake hall. Elias Thorne stood by the turnstile, his hand resting on the cold steel bar. He was a man carved from the same material as the building around him: rigid, functional, and slowly rusting from the inside out. His uniform...
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