The Wistful Throne
The rain against the windowpane of the forty-second floor did not sound like water; it sounded like static, a low-frequency hum that vibrated in the teeth. You sat in the center of the room, your back against the cold glass, watching the city dissolve into a smear of neon and grey. The air conditioning unit in the corner clicked with the rhythm of a failing heart, maintaining a sterile chill...
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