The Golden Harbor
The rain in Seattle did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, a cold, oily sheen that clung to the wool of coats and the skin of faces alike. Elias Thorne stood at the window of the fourth-floor office in the Grayson Institute, watching the city dissolve into a gray blur of wet asphalt and neon, his breath fogging the glass in a small, invisible circle. He had been here for...
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