The carriage swayed with the rhythm of the tracks, but inside, it was unnaturally still.
Lavish, yes—but wrong.
The walls were lined with oddities: preserved eyes floating in cloudy jars, old photographs stained with something darker than time, and a stuffed raven perched high above, its head twitching ever so slightly when unobserved.
There was no fire in the hearth. Only the steady tick of a metronome somewhere in the dark.
A tall man sat at the table. Long coat stitched with silver thread. Black gloves. Hair like he'd lost a fight to something with claws. And eyes colder than steel dipped in winter water.
He poured tea without a word.
Then he spoke.
"You're either desperate…" he said, his voice low and calm, "or cursed to follow a letter like that."
"What letter? Did I follow a letter? When did that happen?" He(mc) taught to himself.
He didn't look up. Didn't ask for a name.
"…Either way," he continued, sliding a second cup across the table, "I need both."
The other man—young, quiet, confused—stared at him.
"…Do you know me?" he asked.
"No," Victor said flatly. "But I knew you'd come."
"…I don't remember who I am," the young man muttered. "Not even my name."
"Then we'll give you one."
Victor reached into his coat and produced a small card. He scribbled something with a brass fountain pen, then held it up.
"Until you remember something more honest," he said, "you'll be Nicholai Xavier.., nah too long, how about Nix"
"…Nix?"
"Short for Nicholai x. Fitting, isn't it?"
Nix looked down at the cup of tea. It wasn't steaming.
"What kind of tea is this? It smells like blood… no, not blood. Like rust. Am I really going along with this?"
Victor took a sip of his own.
"Tell me," he said softly, "do you believe in fear, Nix? Not the emotion—but the thing born from it. Something older than law. Older than reason."
Nix furrowed his brow.
"There are things in London," Victor said. "Things that shouldn't be..."
The train gave a hiss as it slowed to a stop.
People passed the carriage windows in panicked clusters, their eyes downcast, their feet quick. Rushing somewhere—or away from something.
"Where are we?" Nix asked, rising slowly.
Victor adjusted his gloves and buttoned his shirt. "Ashbridge."
"Ashbridge?"
"Let's not be late," he said. "We've been summoned to a scene."
"A crime scene?"
"What about th..." Nix asked, with Victor not paying any attention to him.
"A nobleman named Eloi Klye. Found in his office. Upside down. Flayed. Head missing." Victor said as he took out his pipe.
Nix followed Victor into the smoke, boots crunching over old gravel. The town groaned like a waking creature—buildings leaning too close together, iron gates snarling with ivy, and constables in dull blue overcoats lining the street ahead.
Ashbridge was different from the station they departed from. It was a district near the edge of Greater London. Where the old money settled.
The air was thick with mist. Streetlamps flickered in patterns—like Morse code stammered by a dying man. Airships loomed overhead like bloated ghosts. And the people… they moved fast, eyes downcast, as if running from something invisible.
Victor dropped the pipe, and kept on walking.
At the gates of the Ashbridge Estate, constables stood guard. Yellow seals and brass chains kept the place shut.
Victor showed no hesitation. He reached into his coat and drew a revolver—not pointing it, just showing the weight of it.
No one questioned him. They allowed him through.
Inside, the manor smelled of old wax and iron. Candles had melted in looping, unnatural patterns. Every clock they passed read the same time: 13:13.
Even the broken ones.
The office was sealed with chains and a lock.
Victor opened it with a single kick.
And there—above the desk—hung the corpse.
Stripped of its skin. Hung upside down like a slaughtered animal. No head.
No blood.
The study was pristine.
Except for the words carved into the floor:
ALL TRAITORS SHALL BE ELIMINATED
Victor stared. His jaw tightened.
"Who could've...?"
He trailed off.
Nix wasn't listening.
Across the room, above the cold hearth, hung a portrait. A man in regal dress—crimson sash, obsidian coat, golden cufflinks. But his face...
Gone!
Where his head should've been—was only a black smear.
"…That's him," Victor said quietly, stepping beside him. "Eloi Klye. The man on the ceiling."
"…His head's gone in the portrait too."
Victor nodded. "His butler couldn't even remember his name. Filed a report for a 'missing tenant. Said the office had been locked for days."
Nix looked back at the body. Then the painting. Then the words on the floor.
"…What kind of killer does this?"
Victor didn't answer.
Instead, he lit a match.
The flame flickered once. Then died in a breath of wind that came from nowhere.
Victor stared into the dark.
"There are rules," he murmured. "Old ones. And someone is breaking them."
He turned to Nix.
"Tell me… can you feel it?"
"Feel what?" Vey asked.
Victor's eyes narrowed.
"The house. Listening."
Outside, the fog thickened.
The clocks ticked 13:13.
And in the corner of the study, unseen by either of them, the stuffed raven slowly turned its head.