"What is it?" Thorne asked.

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2026-05-28 12:33:59 -

The fog rolled through Whitechapel like a living thing, thick and suffocating, carrying with it the stench of the Thames and something else—something copper and old. Eileen Moriarty knelt beside the body, her lantern casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The victim was young, perhaps twenty-two, dressed in silk that would have cost more than most East End families earned in a year. Her...

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