The Pale Exile
The rain in New Chicago did not wash things clean; it merely slicked the grime, turning the asphalt into a mirror that reflected the fractured neon of the district. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the center of the intersection, his knuckles split and bleeding, facing down a man who was twice his size and fueled by the same low-frequency hum that vibrated in the teeth of everyone who lived in...
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