The Faded Apartment
The rain against the windowpane of the forty-second floor was not a sound but a texture, a fine, static hiss that coated the glass in a layer of grey mist. Elias Thorne stood before it, his reflection a ghostly smear of charcoal suit and pale skin, watching the city below dissolve into a blur of neon and wet asphalt. He did not blink. Blinking was a concession to the rhythm of the body, a...
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