The Faded Paradox
The rain in Chicago did not wash the city clean; it only made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the Loop into a mirror that reflected the gaslight in distorted, trembling shards. You stood on the corner of Clark and Dearborn, your collar turned up against the November chill, watching the space where a man had been a second ago. He had stepped through a brick wall as if it were made...
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