The Wistful Skyline
The rain hits the pavement in sharp, staccato bursts. You hear it before you see it, a drumming against the asphalt that sounds like fingers tapping on a table. You are standing in the alley behind the precinct, the one that smells of wet cardboard and old grease. Your uniform is soaked through to the skin. The cold bites into your ribs, but you barely feel it. Your attention is fixed on the...
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