The Wistful Grid
The rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a gray curtain drawn tight against the windows of the carriage, blurring the city into a smear of wet brick and neon. Elias Thorne sat in the corner, his leather satchel clutched between his knees like a shield. He was a man of measurements, of square footage and load-bearing walls, a builder who had spent thirty years erecting structures that did...
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