The Wistful Cipher
The rain lashed the high windows of the Ministry of Internal Affairs like a thousand tiny fists, a relentless percussion that underscored the silence of the interrogation room. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper. Inspector Aldous Thorne stood by the desk, his coat still dripping, the water pooling at his feet in a dark, spreading stain. He was a man of...
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