The Wistful Witness
The rain does not fall here; it is driven, a horizontal shear of grey steel that scours the granite face of the Whitehall complex until the stone weeps and the world beyond the perimeter fence dissolves into a smudge of wet asphalt and dying neon. You are standing in the antechamber of the Directorate of Anomalous Phenomena, your boots heavy with the mud of the investigation, your hands...
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