The Wistful Skyline
The letter lay on the workbench, its edges crisp against the scarred wood, the ink of Mr. Sterling’s complaint dark and accusatory. You read it twice, the words blurring slightly as the hum in your left wrist intensified, a low, persistent vibration that felt less like pain and more like a frequency you had forgotten how to ignore. Julian stood in the doorway, his shadow falling across the...
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