The Distant Metropolis
The boardroom smelled of stale coffee and expensive leather, a scent that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the precise moment his life began to unravel. He sat at the far end of the mahogany table, his fingers wrapped tightly around a brass pocket watch, its casing worn smooth by decades of anxious thumbing. The watch ticked out of sync with the ambient hum of the air conditioning, a...
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