The Wistful Cipher
The explosion did not roar, as the poets of the old world had once claimed, but rather shrieked, a high-pitched, metallic tear that stripped the skin from the air in a radius of three hundred meters before the shockwave arrived to flatten the cobblestones of the Dockside District into a uniform, gray paste. Arthur Penhaligon, who had spent the better part of his career in the subterranean...
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