The Pale Mist

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2026-08-20 01:26:10 -

The Pale Mist

The rain fell like a gray shroud over the precinct. It was a cold, wet November in Chicago, the kind that seeps into the bones and refuses to leave. I stood by the window of my office, watching the water streak the glass. My left hand hung at my side. It was still, unnaturally still. The fingers were curled inward, a claw of pale flesh that had stopped listening to the mind. I had been a cop...

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