The Wistful Mirror
The rain did not fall so much as it pressed against the glass of the City Hall atrium, a relentless, gray hand smearing the reflection of the chandelier. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and stale coffee, the ambient hum of a city that had forgotten how to sleep. Commander Elias Thorne stood by the marble pillar, his uniform immaculate, his posture a rigid architecture of...
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