The Distant Metropolis
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the corrugated metal roof of the holding cell with a rhythmic, relentless persistence that felt less like weather and more like a judgment. You sat on the cold concrete floor, your back against the reinforced steel door, knees drawn to your chest. The air smelled of wet wool, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of old blood that never...
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