The Distant Wound
The rain slicked the iron grating of the bridge. Cold. Heavy. I checked the magazine. Full. My uniform was soaked. The wool clung to my skin, heavy as wet sand. It smelled of mildew and old blood. We were moving out. Sector Four. The fog rolled in from the estuary, thick and gray. It ate the lights of the city. It ate the distance. It ate everything. I was a Enforcer. That was the title....
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