The Wistful Show
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a single, drowning breath. You stood in the alley, the wet brick slick against your spine, watching the three men with the automatic weapons shift their weight on the cobblestones. They were Silas’s dogs, and they smelled of stale tobacco and old fear. Your hand went to the pocket where the ledger...
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