The Pale Tower
The glass shatters before you can look away. It happens in the street, under the grey, bleeding sky of a city that has forgotten how to sleep. You are running. Your boots slap against the wet pavement, a frantic, staccato rhythm that matches the pounding in your chest. You are a soldier, or at least you wear the uniform of one. The fabric is synthetic, cold against your skin, smelling of ozone...
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