The Faded Masquerade
The rain in Bristol did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain that blurred the edges of the industrial district where the air tasted of coal smoke and wet iron. Elias Thorne walked with a heavy, deliberate gait, his leather boots striking the cobblestones with a rhythm that felt less like movement and more like a countdown. He carried no bag, no weapon visible beneath the folds of his...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen