The Wistful Cipher
The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in; it stood, a solid wall of grey damp that smelled of wet stone and old iron. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the cobblestone lane, his service coat buttoned to the throat, watching the mist obscure the street where his partner had died. Three days. Three days since Marcus Vance had walked into the shadow of the old warehouse and never walked out. The...
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