The Faded Quadrant
The rain in the city does not wash things clean; it merely slicks the grime, making the streets of the Lower District shine with a deceptive, oily luster that reflects the neon hemorrhage of the advertisements above. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, and you are forty years old, though the mirror in your apartment bathroom suggests a man who has lived three decades in that single, wet moment. You...
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