The Faded Masquerade
The rain against the glass of the observation deck is not merely water; it is a slow, viscous erasure of the world outside, blurring the city lights into streaks of neon that smear across the wet pane like wet paint. You stand in the center of the room, your back straight, your hands clasped behind your back, the posture of a man who has been trained to hold his breath even when he is not being...
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