The Wistful Throne
The fog does not merely settle over the city; it invades it, a dense, grey slurry that seeps through the microscopic gaps in the brickwork of the high-rise, carrying with it the metallic tang of industrial runoff and the faint, cloying scent of damp wool and forgotten promises. You are suspended in a limbo of static and silence, the air in the penthouse suite thick enough to chew, the humidity...
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