I tossed my sodden coat over a chair and lit the oil lamp on my desk, its weak glow flickering across a chaos of maps, books, and half-empty whiskey bottles. I was about to call it a night when I noticed it-a parcel on the floor, slipped under the door while I was out. No stamp, no address, just my name scrawled in black ink across the top: James Carter. The handwriting was sharp, old-fashioned, like something out of a Gothic novel. My gut told me this wasn't a bill or a summons, and curiosity's always been my curse.
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