The Golden Song
The rain in Sector Four did not wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker. It pooled in the cracks of the pavement, reflecting the flickering neon of the holographic billboards that advertised synthetic sunlight and painless memory erasure. Elias Thorne stood at his post, his hand resting on the hilt of his sidearm, watching the crowd flow like a gray river around him. He was a...
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