The Wistful Incense
The silence in the holding cell of the Department of Public Safety, Station Nine, was not empty but rather a heavy, textured thing, woven from the smell of stale coffee, the damp rot of old wool, and the metallic tang of fear that clung to the brick walls like a persistent ghost. Inspector Thomas Bradshaw sat on the cold iron bench, his back rigid against the unforgiving surface, his eyes fixed...
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