The Wistful Incense
The gaslight in the precinct’s third-floor corridor hissed and popped, a rhythmic, sputtering sound that seemed to mock the silence of the room where you sat, Elias Thorne, a man whose hands were trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the iron key in your pocket, a key that had once opened every door in this building but now opened nothing but your own ruin. You are...
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