The Wistful Saga
Marcus. The name hit me like a slap in the wet air, sharp and final. I stood in the downpour outside the condemned St. Jude’s Hospital, my concrete hammer raised mid-swing, the rain soaking through my technical jacket until the fabric felt like cold lead against my skin. The water ran in rivulets down my temples, blurring the grey facade of the building that had once been the center of my...
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