The Distant Wound

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2026-08-20 05:57:34 -

The Distant Wound

The rain against the window of the upper office was not a sound but a texture, a fine, gray static that Marcus Thorne felt in his teeth. He sat behind a desk of reclaimed oak, the wood worn smooth by decades of hands that had once held chisels and now held contracts. Outside, the city of New London sprawled in a muted wash of slate and steel, the skyline softened by the perpetual drizzle that...

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