The Golden Harbor
You are bleeding. The red is warm on your fingers, mixing with the soot and the wet, metallic tang of the London fog. It is not a clean wound. It is jagged. You look down at your hands. They are stained. Not just with blood. With the dark, viscous sludge of the harbor. You are in the middle of a fight. Or perhaps you are losing one. The distinction has blurred. The men around you are shouting....
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