The Faded Portrait
The badge was not in the pocket. It was not in the drawer. It was in the air, suspended in the stagnant, damp heat of the hallway, a golden eye watching me with a cold, metallic indifference. I stood in the rotting manor of my father, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and old blood, and demanded the return of my stolen commission from Julian. He stood by the window, a charismatic young...
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