The Distant Threshold
The rain fell in sheets. Cold. Thin. It slicked the cobblestones of Blackfriars Lane. Elias Thorne walked. His boots were heavy. Wet leather. He carried a duffel bag. It swung against his hip. The city hummed. A low, electric growl. Neons bled onto the wet pavement. Red. Blue. Sickly green. He stopped at a corner. He looked up. The building was brick. Old. Soot-stained. A sign read: *Ashworth &...
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