The Wistful Mountain
The rain in Chicago does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the gray pavement into a mirror that reflects the fractured neon of the Loop. You stand in the glass-walled conference room on the forty-second floor, your knuckles white against the mahogany table, waiting for Julian to speak. He is a man who has carved his career from the bones of lesser men, his suit...
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