The Pale Shadows
Shumin Song owed the prefecture forty-two of Marsh Hollow, a debt measured in water hours that the new sanitation code had quietly doubled. He stood in the coal yard, the mist pressing against his chest like a wet wool blanket, and watched the rioters scatter into the fog. They were not just men; they were the shadows of men, pale and unnatural, clinging to the ground with a weight that defied...
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