The Golden Ritual
Could a man wash away a sin that was not his own? Amit Sengupta stood in the damp corridor of the Bureau, his hand resting on the cold brass rail, watching the ink seep into the wood. He was thirty-two, a city guard with a retirement fund that meant nothing against the debt his son, Ravi, had accrued in the casino district. The air was still, heavy with the scent of wet stone and old paper, the...
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