The Wistful Cipher
The ink had already seeped into the whorls of Himari Kondo’s palm, a dark, living stain that pulsed with the same sluggish rhythm as the rain hammering against the office window, so he held the ledger out with a steady hand that was not his own, the paper trembling against the cold linoleum floor of the interrogation room where the typewriters of the pension office clattered in a distant,...
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