The Distant Whispers
The rain in the city did not fall; it struck, a cold, relentless hammering against the shield and the helmet. I was Sergeant Elias Thorne, and for three hours I had held the line against a crowd that chanted not for justice, but for silence. The air smelled of wet asphalt, tear gas, and the metallic tang of blood. My knees screamed under the weight of my gear, but I did not move. I could not...
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