The Pale Tower
The outer boroughs hummed with the low, industrial thrum of a city that had forgotten how to sleep, a rhythm of grinding gears and distant sirens that pressed against the brickwork of the tenements. In the basement of a model building on the edge of the vine-terraced hills, Carl Zorn checked his watch, the second hand ticking with a frantic, arrhythmic pulse that matched the stuttering beat in...
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