The Wistful Incense
The gas lamps in the Ministry of Internal Affairs flickered with a sickly, jaundiced rhythm, casting long, trembling shadows against the wallpapered walls of Director Ashworth’s office. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the room, his tie loosened, his coat discarded on the chair, his hands stained with ink and the faint, metallic residue of ozone. He was a man who dealt in facts, in the cold,...
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