The Golden Downtown
The fog does not roll in so much as it asserts itself, a thick, grey wall that swallows the headlights of your rusted sedan until the world narrows to a ten-foot corridor of wet asphalt and the low, rhythmic thrum of the engine. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have driven for six hours through a landscape that seems to have no name, following a trail of breadcrumbs left by a...
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