The Pale Verdict
The fog in London does not roll in; it seeps, a cold, wet exhalation that tastes of iron and rot, settling into the lungs of the clinic like a second, heavier breath. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a chemist displaced by the war, and your hands are shaking not from the chill but from the terrifying fragility of the glass vial in your pocket. Your sister Clara, twenty-eight, lies in...
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