The Golden Ritual
The coat was red. It was a violent, arterial red, the kind of crimson that seemed to hum against the drab grey of the city. It hung in the window of a second-floor apartment in a district where the rain never quite stopped, just shifted from a drizzle to a mist, a constant, damp shroud. Elias saw it every morning. He saw it first thing, before the sun had the nerve to break the cloud line,...
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