The Wistful Cipher
The room is thick with the smell of roasted chestnuts and cheap gin, a warm, cloying fog that seems to settle into the fibers of your wool coat and stay there long after you have stepped out into the biting November air of the industrial quarter. You sit at the edge of the mahogany table, your hands folded tightly in your lap, watching the candlelight flicker against the faces of men who speak...
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