The Wistful Cipher
"You have the wrong key, Mr. Hale." The voice came from the shadows of the corridor, dry and detached as falling dust. I adjusted my grip on the iron bar, my knuckles white against the cold metal. The air in the sub-basement was thick with the smell of wet limestone and old oil. It tasted of decay. I did not answer. I simply pushed the bar against the lock mechanism. It groaned. A sound like a...
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