The Golden Suspect
The rain in Geneva does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the courtyard into a mirror that reflects nothing but the grey, indifferent sky. You stand there, Elias Thorne, your thirty-two years of life compressed into the rigid tension of your shoulders, clutching a sealed dossier against your chest as if it were a living thing, a heart that...
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