The Golden Downtown
The chandelier above you is a constellation of cut crystal, refracting the amber light of the precinct’s annual gala into a thousand sharp, stinging points on the polished marble floor. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two years old, and your left knee is a ticking bomb of inflammation, a sharp, grinding pain that flares with every step you take across the ballroom. You raise your glass of scotch,...
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