The Wistful Cipher
The iron gate groans. It is a low, rusty sound. Like a man clearing his throat before a lie. You stand in the corridor. The floor is cold stone. Your boots are heavy. They are steel-toed. They are expensive. You can feel the weight of every step. You are a detective. You are also poor. Your coat is thin. The winter air bites through the wool. It finds the gaps in the buttons. It finds the gaps...
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