The Wistful Mirror
The rain hit the pavement like shrapnel. Silas Vane held his ground. His boots slid on the wet asphalt, slick with oil and grime. He was a heavy man, built for the rigors of the field, but his shoulders were hunched. The weight was not in his muscles. It was in his mind. "Drop it!" he shouted. His voice was raw, scraped by the night wind. Across the intersection, a figure stood still. It was...
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