The Faded Shield
The rain in the city does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the soot-stained brick of the tenement blocks into a canvas of wet, dark bruises that bleed down the facades. You sit in the narrow office that smells of damp wool and stale coffee, your hands wrapped around a mug that has gone cold an hour ago, watching the water drip from the edge of the awning into...
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