The Golden Scar
The rain in Sector Four did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors of blackened iron that reflected the grey, oppressive sky and the silhouette of the man standing on the bridge. Elias Thorne stood there, his coat heavy with water, the weight of the brass insignia on his shoulder pressing against the wool like a cold, dead hand. He was a...
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