The Wistful Cipher
The bullet strikes the oak desk not with the hollow thud of fiction but with a wet, sickening crack that splinters the wood grain into a thousand jagged teeth, and you watch the splinter fly toward your face, a tiny shard of history that carries the scent of gunpowder and old paper, while the room holds its breath in a silence so absolute it has weight, pressing against your eardrums like deep...
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