The Golden Farce
The rain in Sector 4 did not wash the city clean; it merely redistributed the grime, turning the concrete into a slick, grey mirror that reflected the neon bleed of the surveillance towers. Elias Thorne stood under the awning of a shuttered pharmacy, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of a standard-issue sidearm that felt heavier than it had a week ago. He was a man built for order, a...
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