The Faded Masquerade

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2026-08-24 13:19:24 -

The rusted iron pipe gripped Thorne’s hand, the metal biting into the meat of his palm. It was a heavy, cold thing, stripped of paint by years of use in the foundry, and it smelled of wet iron and old grease. He swung it. The impact was dull, a thud rather than a crack, as the pipe connected with a man’s jaw. The man went down, sliding across the wet cobblestones of the Mill District, leaving a...

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