The conductor's whistle pierced the silence just as Arthur stepped out onto the narrow exterior walkway between carriages. A cool fog had begun to seep through the cracks of night, brushing his coat with damp whispers. Ahead, the dining car glowed faintly, a flickering lantern of warmth in an otherwise cold and shifting world.
He didn't stop.
Each step felt heavier than the last—not from fatigue, but from the memory clawing up his spine.
The Queen of Spades.
It wasn't just a calling card.
It was a message.
A mirror.
A challenge.
When Arthur reached the dining car, he pushed open the sliding door slowly. The golden light spilled out over polished tables and silver cutlery, but only three passengers sat inside.
Not Evelyn.
Not Elric.
Luke stood near the back, hands in his pockets, gaze sharp. He shook his head slightly.
"Neither of them came through here," he said under his breath as Arthur approached. "Kitchen staff haven't seen them. One chef swears he heard someone pass the junction between cabins fifteen minutes ago, but the view's blocked by crates."
"Which direction?" Arthur asked.
"Back," Luke said. "Storage. End of the line."
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
Only conductors and maintenance personnel were allowed back there.
He didn't speak. He turned.
Fog thickened as he stepped back outside. The wind was colder now, the kind that made your skin sting and your instincts sharpen. The train curved slightly, screeching over a bend. The railing trembled beneath his fingers as he made his way toward the rear.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. A click.
The sound of a door unlatching.
Arthur ducked into the shadows beside a junction box, breath slow, movements slower. The rear cargo carriage door opened with a creak—almost too quiet to notice—and a figure stepped out, moving quickly.
Slender.
A long coat.
Gloves.
The figure didn't look back.
Arthur moved, soundless, like a shadow across a tightrope. Every step was a breath, every breath a decision. He reached the cargo door and slipped inside before it shut fully.
The interior was dim, lit only by flickering ceiling strips. Crates were stacked in neat rows, some labeled with the seal of the Crown Postal Division, others with no markings at all.
Footsteps echoed faintly ahead.
He followed.
Until he saw them.
Evelyn Cross—her coat unbuttoned, hands trembling as she rifled through a side crate, unaware of his presence.
Arthur stepped closer, his voice calm but piercing. "Looking for something, Doctor?"
Evelyn spun, startled. For a moment, raw fear crossed her face.
Then it was gone.
Replaced by composure.
"Mr. Virelith," she said coolly. "I could ask you the same."
Arthur didn't move. "Fenwick is dead."
She didn't flinch.
"I see," she said quietly.
"You don't seem surprised."
"I'm a surgeon. Surprise is a luxury I left behind years ago."
Arthur tilted his head slightly. "Then perhaps you won't be surprised to hear he was killed with a fountain pen. Precision entry. Minimal blood spray. A surgeon's hand."
A pause.
Just a second too long.
"I'm not the only one with steady hands," she said.
"No," Arthur replied. "But you're the only one who lied about where you were."
She drew a sharp breath. "I didn't kill him."
"Then help me find who did."
He watched her closely—looking for the tremor, the crack. Instead, she lowered her eyes, then reached into her coat slowly.
Arthur tensed—but all she pulled out was a folded envelope.
"I didn't lie," she said. "I came back here to find this. I received it three hours ago."
Arthur took the envelope. Opened it.
Inside: a single sentence typed in Courier font.
"He killed someone you loved. Tonight, you'll be offered justice."
Beneath it was a Queen of Spades.
Arthur felt the weight press harder against his wrists—cold, tightening.
He looked up at Evelyn.
"Who gave you this?"
"I don't know," she said. "But whoever they are… they want you to think it's me."
Arthur folded the card again.
Whoever the killer was, they weren't just ending lives.
They were building a stage.
And dragging the past back under the spotlight