The Wistful Cipher
Act I Michalis Stefanou had forty-two years of age and a medical bill on a payment plan that arrived with the morning mail, heavier than the paper it was printed on. He stood in the break room of the night warehouse, the rain lashing sideways against the single pane of glass, a physical fact that blurred the world outside into a smear of red iron and grey spinifex. The air smelled of wet wool...
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