The Pale Bridge
The banquet hall in the district of St. Jude’s was a cathedral of glass and steel, suspended above the smog-choked streets of a city that had forgotten how to sleep. The air inside was sterile, chilled to a temperature that made the sweat prickle on the skin of the guests, a fine, cold mist that clung to the linen suits and the silk gowns. It was a night for the powerful, for those who had...
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