Dear Reader,
There are countless combinations of things in this world that might be described as cheerful—sunshine paired with ice cream, a letter from a friend, or the discovery of an extra fry at the bottom of your bag. Alas, the circumstances you are about to embark upon are not among them. If you are the sort of person who prefers to face life armed with a sunny disposition and a belief that everything happens for a reason, I urge you—no, beg you—to stop reading immediately and divert your energies to something more uplifting, such as knitting a scarf or alphabetizing your spice rack.
This particular journey is an unholy alliance of calamities so ghastly that you may find yourself questioning their plausibility. And yet, should you persist, you will encounter a litany of miseries, including—but not limited to—claustrophobic quarters, a revolving door of nefarious acquaintances, shadowy organizations with secrets older than the city itself, vertigo-inducing heights, narrow escapes, and an absence of the one tool that might have saved the day: a properly sharpened lockpick.
As the unfortunate chronicler of these events, I am duty-bound to transcribe them for your perusal, though it pains me to do so. However, you, dear reader, are under no such obligation. You may, at this very moment, abandon this ill-advised pursuit and instead turn your attention to something infinitely more comforting—perhaps a cozy armchair, a warm mug of tea, or the inexplicable joy of finding a lost sock that has reunited with its forlorn twin.
