The Distant Wound
Act I The machiya rows of Kyoto stretched out like a row of cracked teeth, grinding against the September frost that had settled without warning, turning the peat-brown gutters into slick, black mirrors. In the colony mess, the smell of burnt protein hung heavy in the air, a bureaucratic scent that clung to the coats of the shift workers as they queued for their rations. Aiko Fujiwara stood...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 5 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen