The Faded Quadrant
The shrapnel took the left side of your jaw, but it was the taste of copper and ozone that lingered, a metallic film coating the back of your throat that no amount of spitting could wash away. You are lying in the back of a unmarked sedan, the leather seats soaked through with your own blood, and the city of Chicago is a blur of neon and rain against the smeared glass. The driver, a man whose...
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