The Golden Quest
The rain in Chicago does not wash things clean; it merely redistributes the grime, turning the asphalt into a slick, black mirror that reflects the neon bleed of the city back up at the pedestrian level, a distorted and hungry reflection of the self. Elias Thorne stood at the corner of Michigan Avenue, his umbrella a battered black disc against the downpour, watching the flow of traffic with...
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