The Golden Crossing
The hammer fell against the copper pipe with a dull, wet thud that echoed through the hollow walls of the municipal building, a sound like a knuckle cracking inside a thick glove. Elias Thorne wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag that was already gray with grime, his eyes fixed on the seam where the metal had begun to weep a viscous, amber fluid. He was forty years old, a man who measured...
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