The Faded Apartment
The brass latch of the evidence locker door stuck, a stubborn thing of rust and neglect, until Inspector Elias Thorne applied the full weight of his shoulder against it, the cold of the basement seeping through the wool of his tunic to his marrow. He did not look up. He was counting the seconds, a habit born of twenty years in the service, where a delay of three seconds in a pursuit could mean...
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