The Distant Metropolis
The count of hours was precise, a cold arithmetic that Elias Thorne performed with the grim regularity of a man checking the pulse of a corpse, and by the time the third hour had bled into the fourth, the weight of the deed in his pocket felt less like paper and more like a stone he had swallowed. He stood in the foyer of Highgate Manor, the air thick with the scent of damp plaster and...
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