The Pale Mist
The air in the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Infirmary was not merely cold; it was a physical weight, a dense, gelatinous substance that pressed against Margot Vane’s sternum with the persistence of a debt that could never be repaid. She sat alone in the narrow alcove, her back against the damp concrete, her hands resting in her lap, fingers intertwined with a precision that suggested...
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