The Faded Quadrant

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2026-08-19 22:30:38 -

The iron barrel of the rifle was hot against my cheek. I could smell the gunpowder, a sharp, metallic tang that burned the back of my throat. Outside the window, the rain lashed against the glass in sheets, blurring the street into a gray smear. Inside, the room smelled of stale tobacco and wet wool. I held the weapon with both hands, my knuckles white. It was an old piece, a Webley revolver,...

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