The Pale Fracture
The rain does not wash the city clean; it only makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflect nothing but the wet, heavy sky. You are walking, your boots squelching against the pavement, the sound a wet, rhythmic pulse that matches the throbbing in your temples. You are the Inspector, or what is left of the role, a title that holds less power here than a hollow...
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