The Golden Mirror
"Holloway." The voice is not loud, but it carries the weight of a closing door. You freeze, your hand still hovering over the brass latch of the evidence locker, the cold metal biting into your palm. You are standing in the sub-basement of the precinct, a space that smells of damp concrete and old rust. The air here is stagnant, thick with the heat of the ventilation units that hum a low,...
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