The Pale Shadows
The rain in the dockyards did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the rusted hulls of the barges into mirrors of distorted, weeping iron. Detective Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the pier, his collar turned up against the sleet, watching the fog roll in from the black water. He was a man carved from the same soot-stained brick as the city, his face a map of old...
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