The Iron Mark of Whitechapel
The fog in Whitechapel did not roll in; it rose from the earth itself, a living thing that swallowed gas lamps and men whole. I learned this in my seventeenth year, when I had less than a shirt on my back and a mark on my chest the colour of old iron. They called it the Wheel Mark, though it looked nothing like a wheel to me. It was a scar, raised and pale, shaped like a circle with lines...
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