The Pale Dance
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended curtain of gray water that turned the neon signs of the city into smeared bruises against the dark. I stood in the center of the intersection, my badge heavy against my chest, a cold iron weight that seemed to pull me down into the wet asphalt. My name was Elias Thorne, and I was a man who had spent twenty years believing that the...
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