The Pale Exile
"Seventeen euros for the hour, and the medallion is still in escrow," the broker said, his voice flat over the static of the payphone, "so if you want to keep the taxi, you need to sign the waiver by noon, or I sell it to the consortium." I hung up before he could finish, the receiver clicking with a finality that echoed in the steam-filled air of the laundromat, a place that smelled of wet...
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