The Pale Tale
The letter was unsigned, the paper thin and brittle, smelling faintly of the damp cellar where the city kept its worst secrets. I held it under the gaslight in the archive, my fingers trembling not from cold, but from the specific, grinding pressure that had settled behind my left ear three days prior. It was a notice of termination. My name, Arthur Vane, was struck through with a single, heavy...
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