The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, suspended in a grid of static that hummed against the glass of the Department of Justice balcony. Elias Thorne pressed his thumb against the pulse point of his wrist, feeling the arrhythmia stutter in time with the flickering city lights below. He was fifty-two, a federal marshal with twenty-eight years of service, and he had exactly three weeks of...
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