The Wistful Skyline
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a relentless, wet rhythm against the reinforced glass of the observation deck, blurring the city below into a smear of gray concrete and dying neon. Inside, the air was stale, recycled, and thick with the metallic tang of ozone and fear. Elias Thorne sat alone at the far end of the long, curved table, his back to the window, his hands resting...
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