The Golden Maze
The rain in London did not wash things clean in 1893; it merely pressed the grime deeper into the cobblestones, a cold, industrial slurry that tasted of coal and old iron. You are Elias Thorne, and you stand before the wrought-iron gates of the Blackwood Estate, your breath hitching in your chest not from the chill but from the sheer, terrifying magnitude of the debt that has swallowed your...
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