The Distant Metropolis
The rain in London did not wash the city clean; it merely rearranged the grime, pressing the soot of a hundred years into the porous limestone of the city’s bones. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his office on the fourteenth floor of the Ministry of Internal Security, watching the droplets race down the glass in frantic, silent competitions. He was a man carved from the same material as the...
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