The Distant Metropolis
The leather of the cuffs was not merely tight; it was a second skin, a cold, black membrane that had begun to fuse with the pulse of Elias Thorne’s wrists, a sensation so intimate and suffocating that it blurred the line between the man and the instrument of his restraint. He sat in the center of the interrogation room, a sterile box of white tile and fluorescent hum, his back rigid against the...
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