The Distant Machine
"Put the coat in the evidence bin, Watanabe. Do it now." Inspector Kuroda’s voice was flat, a dry rasp that cut through the humid air of the warehouse. Hiroshi Watanabe stood by the wet concrete floor, his boots sinking slightly into the grime. The air smelled of rust, rotting kelp, and the metallic tang of old blood. A dockworker lay three feet away, his chest heaving with a rattle that...
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