The Wistful Silence
The chandelier above the ballroom floor was a cascade of crystal that caught the light and fractured it into a thousand cold shards, mirroring the sterile efficiency of the precinct Elias Thorne had served for twenty-two years. He stood near the edge of the dance floor, his tie pulled tight against his throat, his eyes fixed not on the dancing couples but on the silver watch in his left pocket....
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