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on christmas morning, every shop in london was shut. even slouch house was deserted. granted, none of the workers were particularly festive, but would never deny a day off. well, mostly deserted.
river cartwright sat, slumped in his chair, already half asleep despite the decent sleep he got last night. hangovers hit harder when youโre older, he supposed. he scribbled another note on the same sheet of paperwork that had lay on the desk for the last two hours. was it clichรฉ to ask where it all went wrong?
his miserable wet cat appearance was amplified by the dim light of the office, his stubble casting soft shadows across his jawline. the stained curtains were pulled shut, a sliver of light seeping into the silent room.