The Glass Ceiling
(Variant V-01: Victorian Melancholy) The fog of London did not merely drift; it clung. It was a grey, suffocating shroud that erased the boundaries between the soot-stained cobblestones and the leaden sky. For Arthur, the fog was the only honest thing in the city—it hid the filth of the East End and the arrogance of the West, wrapping both in a singular, oppressive silence. Arthur lived in a...
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