The Wistful Cipher
You walk the corridor of the Whitehall Annex, and the air is thick with the scent of wet wool and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that seems to have seeped into the very plaster of these Victorian walls, a pervasive odor that clings to the hem of your coat and settles into the creases of your soul, a smell that is not quite smell but rather a memory of decay, a ghost that walks beside...
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