The Glass Sarcophagus
The scalpel didn't slip; it paused. Julian watched the blade hover a fraction of a millimeter above the pale, translucent skin of the forearm. Beside him, Silas stood like a monolith of coarse wool and river-mud, his breath a rhythmic, guttural rattle in the damp silence of the basement. The gaslight flickered, casting elongated, shivering shadows against the weeping stone walls of the anatomy...
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