Dig deep, beneath the scent of dime-store perfume and expensive whiskey, muffled by the sounds of too many languages and too little understanding, in the shadow of skyscapers and the glint of gun barrels, and you'll find it.

Tense, coiled, patient, vibrating softly as the world teeters on the edge of the Abyss and prepared to explode like a dream deferred...

Magic is stalking the streets of St. Michelle.

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