The Wistful Show
The rain fell on the roof of the precinct with a sound like dry leaves being crushed underfoot, a relentless, gray hiss that seemed to drown out the world beyond the reinforced glass. Silas Vane sat in the corner of the interrogation room, his back against the cold steel of the wall, his hands folded in his lap. He was a man built of quiet endurance and old scars, his face a map of lines that...
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