The Wistful Witness
The fluorescent tube above the interrogation table buzzed, a low, sickly drone that seemed to vibrate in the fillings of your teeth. "You’re not him," you said, your voice flat, stripped of its usual command, "and I know what you did." The man across from you, a small, sharp-featured individual named Arthur Vane, did not flinch. He leaned back in the plastic chair, the metal legs scraping...
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