The Distant Temple
The rain in Seattle does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the city into a mirror of wet asphalt and neon reflections that smear when you blink. You are sitting in the back of a cab, the leather seat cold against your lower back, watching the wipers beat a frantic, rhythmic code against the windshield. You have been looking for Marcus for three days, not because...
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