The Golden Maze
The rain hammered against the high windows of Magistrate Vane’s office, a relentless, industrial drumbeat that matched the thrumming of the machinery below. I stood rigid, my hand resting on the holster of my service revolver, while Vane sat behind his mahogany desk, swirling a glass of brandy with the casual ease of a man who owned the very air I breathed. "You are making a mistake, Constable...
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