The Distant Threshold
The rain in Chicago did not wash the city clean but rather slicked the grime into a permanent, iridescent sheen that clung to the windowpane of the interrogation room, a viscous barrier between the cold reality of the alleyway and the sterile, humming warmth of the precinct, where Detective Elias Thorne sat with his hands folded on the metal table, the knuckles white not from tension but from...
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