The screeching whistle of the steam tram outside broke the morning silence.
Arsa Ashrith blinked awake.
The ceiling above him was old, wooden, and cracked in places. A stain shaped like the letter "R" had been there for months. He sighed and rolled onto his side. The pillow was too soft, again. Jenkins had given it to him last week, said something about "comfort increasing productivity." Arsa had nodded like he appreciated it. He didn't.
His greenish-gray hair, unbound and messy from sleep, stuck to the sides of his pale face. It fell just past his neck and clung to his white collar. He sat up and rubbed his eyes slowly, blinking until his vision sharpened.
"Another day of being broke and accused of being a girl," he muttered, voice dry and low.
He stood up, pushed his hair back behind his ears, and walked over to the tiny washbasin beside the window. Outside, the fog still clung to the buildings of Sheffield like wet laundry. The city was already awake, full of boots, smoke, and steam.
He reached for the worn brush, then paused.
"I really need to cut this hair," he mumbled to himself. "But then Jenkins will just say I look like a 'sad tomboy' instead of a 'sad girl' even though I don't know what a 'tomboy' is."
He brushed his teeth with one hand while patting down his hair with the other. Then, he moved to the stove and poured what was left in the kettle into his chipped ceramic cup. The black tea had gone bitter overnight, but he drank it anyway. No milk. No sugar. He wasn't made of money.
His flat was small, just enough space for a bed, a stove, a desk buried under papers, and a wooden wardrobe that creaked every time he opened it.
He pulled it open now.
From inside, he drew out a fresh white shirt and buttoned it up slowly, adjusting the stiff collar. Over it, he slipped into a black waistcoat, its buttons scratched from years of use. His long black frock coat came next, the edges slightly frayed but clean. He tied the black string bow neatly under his collar and adjusted the small blue crystal in the center.
He stepped into long black trousers and polished shoes. Finally, he picked up his white gloves, slipping them on with practiced ease. His black top hat, with the blue ribbon around its base, waited on the corner of the desk. He placed it gently on his head, tilted just enough to appear indifferent.
Reaching into the drawer, he retrieved his revolver. Archie.308, etched on the barrel. He checked the cylinder. Fully loaded. It never wasn't. He slid it into the holster under his coat.
"Let's see what Jenkins wants to yell about today," he muttered.
He grabbed his cane—the silver handle cool in his gloved palm—and walked toward the door.
The hall outside his apartment smelled like boiled cabbage again.
As he locked the door and turned, a voice called from across the hallway. "Dei'ssa mulren, Mr. Ashrith!"
Mrs. Yourinron stood in her doorway, wrapped in her checkered shawl and smiling with only three visible teeth. She spoke Aronese, the sharp yet flowing language of the neighboring isles. She always greeted him the same way.
Arsa gave a polite bow and replied in smooth Alastairian, "A good morning to you too, madam."
She waved at him cheerfully, muttering something else he didn't quite catch, then vanished back inside.
As he descended the stairs, he could already hear the factory whistles echoing through the fog-drenched city.
Another day. Another case. Another round of mistaken gender.
Time skip.
About ten minutes later, Arsa was seating stiffly in the back of a hansom cab, watching fog roll past the window like spilled ink. The driver snapped the reins now and then, the clip-clop of hooves echoing off stone walls and soot-stained brick. The city's air always had this heavy mix of smoke, sweat, and boiled potatoes. Sheffield never changed.
He pulled out the case file he had jammed into my coat pocket last night. The folder was thin—of course it was. Two pages. One on a noble girl's missing shoe, the other on someone's lost dog. The shoe had already been found yesterday—wedged inside a drainage pipe near Bellman's Bridge, coated in things he wish that he could unsee.
Arsa sighed and muttered under his breath, "At this rate, I'll be promoted to Chief of Footwear Retrieval."
Murder cases? Missing persons? Espionage? That was wishful thinking. Jenkins only tossed real investigations to the taller, deeper-voiced types. The ones who didn't get asked if they were their own sister.
The cab rattled to a stop. The building loomed ahead: gray stone, black-iron railings, and a pair of carved lion heads above the door, permanently sneering. The brass sign read Royal Bureau of Domestic Affairs – Sheffield Division. It sounded impressive.
Arsa stepped down from the cab and handed the driver three shillings. He barely nodded before whipping the horse forward, disappearing into the mist like a ghost on a schedule.
Then he turned on his heels and started walking toward the front steps, cane tapping along with every step. That's when he saw him.
"Oi! Arsa!"
Arthur Gawain—tall, blonde, with the ever-shining monocle on his left eye—was waving at me like we were long-lost brothers. He wore the same uniform as he did: long black coat, white gloves, polished shoes. Except his black tie was actually straight, and he wore it like he meant it. Always did.
He grinned wide as I approached.
"So," Arsa said, adjusting my top hat, "how are you holding up after your dramatic betrayal and heartbreak?"
Arthur dramatically placed a hand over his heart. "Tragic, truly. She's dating some banker now. She was probably a gold digger."
He leaned closer, whispering with a wink, "Honestly, Arsa, if you were a girl, I would've proposed by now. You're more beautiful than she ever was. And—let's face it—you look like a girl."
Arsa groaned softly and gave him a flat look. "Please don't joke like that, Mr. Gawain."
He threw his head back and laughed, loud enough for passersby to stare. "You're no fun, Arsa. But you're still the prettiest member of this cursed bureau."
Arsa didn't reply. He just kept walking toward the front door, hearing the chuckle behind him as Arthur followed.
Wind stirred slightly around Arsa—unnaturally so. His coat fluttered for a second before settling. He clenched his gloved hand. It always reacted to his mood, even if he didn't call on it directly.
Yrlton. Anomaly. That's what he was. Not that it earned him any better cases. He wasn't flashy. He wasn't dangerous. All he could do was move air.
As the heavy doors creaked open, the smell of typewriter ink and burnt coffee hit him the moment they stepped into the main hall of the bureau. Same as always—paper stacks, cold light through stained windows, and the steady clack-clack-clack of keys tapping away.
Mrs. Westwell, perched behind the front desk, didn't even look up as we passed. Her gray hair was tied tight in a bun, and her fingers danced across the typewriter like they were casting a spell.
"Good morning, gentlemen," she said flatly.
"Morning, Mrs. Westwell," Arthur chimed, tipping his hat. Arsa gave her a short nod and a quiet "Ma'am," before heading further in.
We passed the usual crew—Mister Clove, yawning into his tea; Edrin from records, already complaining about overtime; and little Miss Anaya, the new half-elf recruit, nose buried in a case file. Arthur waved. Arsa wasn't bother. Most of them still thought that he was some detective's daughter playing dress-up. He didn't feel like correcting them.
Their desks were near the tall windows, just under the flickering gas lamps. Arsa corner was the same as always—tidy, silent, with an extra pillow stuffed into the chair courtesy of Jenkins. He claimed it was for posture. Arsa knew it was because the standard chairs left his feet barely brushing the ground.
Arthur flopped into his seat beside him, sighing like he'd just marched across the entire country. "Think we'll get something interesting today?"
Arsa was about to answer when the room shifted.
Not in sound—but in attention.
The doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, and everyone stood up, almost instinctively.
Mr. Argus Jenkins had entered.
Tall, composed, and always walking like he owned the room. He wore a storm-gray version of our coat and trousers, and his top hat sat just a little too perfectly on his head. His eyes, the color of burnished brass, swept over the room like polished lenses. There was something unreadable behind them. As always.
"Good morning, all," he said, his voice like gravel and cold tea.
"Good morning, Director Jenkins," they replied in near unison.
He walked to the center of the hall, hands behind his back, coat swaying with each step. The usual preamble came—reminders about paperwork, mentions of cases, schedules, respectability.
Then he paused.
His eyes flicked toward Arsa briefly before scanning the rest of the room.
"One more matter," he said, adjusting his gloves. "A request has arrived from Lord Mervyn of Eastbank regarding his estate."
A few agents looked up. Eastbank was one of those names people only heard in ghost stories and drunk bar talk.
Jenkins continued, "He claims the mansion has... unusual activity. Unexplained noises. Doors opening and closing on their own. Strange dreams among the staff."
Arthur smirked. Someone snorted from the back.
"A ghost, sir?" Mr Artwiled asked, laughing lightly. "You're saying the noble's manor is haunted?"
Jenkins raised a brow but didn't smile.
"Yes," he said simply. "He believes it is."
Silence.
No one believed it. Of course not. They lived in a world with beastfolk, elves, Yrltuns, and magic rituals, demons etc . But no ghosts. Not real ones. No one had ever seen one.
Jenkins let the silence settle before adding:
"I'm sending a team tomorrow. Just in case."
He looked directly at me.
"Arsa Ashrith. You're going."
Arsa blinked and said . "...Excuse me?"
TO BE CONTINUE