The Wistful Cipher
The vial in your hand is heavier than it looks, a small glass cylinder containing a liquid the color of bruised plums, and you crush it between your palms with a violence that surprises even you as the glass shatters, the bitter tonic spilling over your knuckles and soaking into the cuffs of your uniform, a sharp, medicinal smell that cuts through the stale air of the office. It is 1912, and...
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