The Pale Echo
Thorne, you look like hell, and not the good kind that keeps the bad spirits away, but the kind that smells of stale tobacco and bad decisions. The voice belonged to Captain Briggs, who stood in the doorway of the precinct’s break room, his uniform pressed to a razor’s edge, a stark contrast to the grime that seemed to settle permanently in the creases of Thorne’s own collar. It was November,...
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