The Wistful Witness
The iron taste of the gaslight hangs in the air, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and settles deep in the lungs, a persistent reminder that you are breathing the exhalations of a city that has forgotten how to sleep. You stand at the edge of the precinct, a figure carved from the soot and silence of the night, your uniform a second skin that has long since ceased to be fabric...
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