The Golden Downtown
The rain in the industrial district did not wash the city clean; it only made the grime slicker, a cold, oily film that clung to Elias Thorne’s wet coat as he stood beneath the awning of a shuttered bank, watching the financial tower across the street shudder and groan. He was fifty-two, with twenty-eight years of service etched into the deep lines around his eyes and the persistent, dull ache...
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