The Wistful Incense
The fog in the Blackwood District does not lift; it thickens, pressing against your lungs like a wet wool blanket soaked in iron and old blood. You walk the beat, your boots sinking into the sludge that coats the cobblestones, the steam from the manholes rising in ghostly plumes that tangle with the chimney smoke. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne, and you have been walking this street for thirty...
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