The Pale Circus
The rain in the city does not wash things clean; it only makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflect the hollowed-out eyes of the men who walk them. You know this. You have walked these streets for twenty years, your badge a cold weight against your ribs, a metal talisman that promises order in a world that has long since abandoned the concept. You are a man of...
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