The Wistful Skyline
The rain had stopped, leaving the city slick with a sheen of grey that reflected the neon bleeds of the signs on Fifth Avenue, but inside the precinct, the air was still thick with the static of unresolved grief. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows, staring at the file in front of him as if it were a corpse he had failed to resuscitate. He was a man who had...
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