The Distant Nightmare
The pen was cold, a heavy steel thing that bit into the pad of your thumb as you held it, the ink drying before it could spread. You looked down at the ledger, the leather-bound book that smelled of mildew and old blood, and watched the date for Arthur Vane’s death shift from a prediction into a record. Three days ago, Vane had been alive, walking the streets of the industrial district,...
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