The Pale Tale
The dust in the Mill District tasted of copper and old rot, a flavor that stuck to the back of my throat and refused to wash away. I stood in the doorway of Number 42, my hand resting on the cold iron of my service pistol, the weight of it a familiar comfort against the chaos of the crumbling brick. The Bureau’s order was clear: evict the last holdout, secure the deed, and collect the pension...
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