The Distant Clue
The iron door groaned shut behind you. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light that pierced the gloom of the workshop. You stood still. Your breath hitched in your throat. You were not a man. You were a vessel. You were the Left Hand. You looked down. The fingers were long. Too long. The nails were blackened with grease and blood. You remembered the name. Thomas. Thomas Bradshaw. But that...
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