The Distant Metropolis
Thorne, you are bleeding again, the voice in the dark said, though no mouth had moved. Elias opened his eyes to the grey ceiling of the rented room, the plaster cracked like dried mud, and felt the cold weight of the left hand that was not there. It hung by his side, a ghost of muscle and bone, twitching in perfect, terrible sync with the living right hand that gripped the edge of the bed. He...
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