The Pale Fracture
The rain in the city did not fall. It hung. A grey, suspended mist that clung to the wool of my coat and the steel of my sidearm. I walked through Sector Four, the streets slick with a sheen that reflected the neon bleed of the surveillance drones overhead. They hummed, a low, constant drone, the sound of the state breathing. I was a man of the Bureau. My badge was a cold iron square against my...
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