Stepping out onto the street, Shade finally felt like he had entered the world itself.
Compared to the city's bustle, he was insignificant—like a single drop lost in the sea of people.
He said little. Instead, he walked quietly toward his destination—the "Lark Club"—listening, watching, and learning as he moved. Every passing carriage, every shouting street vendor, every puff of smoke from distant chimneys fed him information.
At a glance, this world resembled the steam-powered 19th century of his previous life. But the difference was clear: the steam industry here was more developed, more fanatical. The people of this world had committed themselves fully to steam, with no signs of slowing.
Black mist poured from the factory chimneys, blanketing the skies in soot and fog. Strange inventions clattered and rattled down cobblestone streets. Industry was booming, and the economy soared with it.
As Shade had guessed, this city was Tobesk—the capital of the northern Kingdom of Delarion. A jewel of the north. The heart of human civilization on this continent.
The city lived up to its reputation. Yes, the alleys still stank of waste, and refuse piled up in hidden corners. But the grand avenues, the architecture, the sheer noise and energy of it all impressed Shade. Even in his hour-long walk, Tobesk's grandeur left an imprint.
Fortunately, the "Lark Club" wasn't too far from the city center. If it had been, Shade might not have reached it before nightfall—he couldn't afford carriage fare.
He walked.
And along the way, he learned.
The most important lesson was about money.
In Delarion, currency consisted of gold pounds, shillings, and pence. One pound equaled twenty shillings. One shilling equaled twelve pence.
The denominations felt familiar. Not because they were identical to the British system, but because Shade instinctively translated the local terms into those equivalents in his mind.
That made the reality of his situation all the more bitter.
The crumpled "10" note he'd found back home?
Worth 10 pence.
Not even enough to hire a carriage to the club.
If he stretched it, that 10p might buy him the cheapest bread crumbs, sold by bakeries near closing time—if he was willing to fight off the children and housewives of the slums. Enough to avoid starvation for three days. Barely.
"At least... this is a peaceful era."
Shade comforted himself.
Delarion in the north, Carsonrick in the south—the two great powers of the continent. Their last war had ended decades ago. Though tensions simmered, it was an age of relative peace. An age of industry. Progress.
There were worse times to be stranded in a strange world.
As he walked, Shade reflected his goal: in this world, clubs were a major part of social life. Detective Hamilton's report noted that the target of his surveillance, Mrs. La Soya, visited the "Lark Club" every weekend, staying there for at least three hours.
Hamilton had suspected that this private club was where Mrs. La Soya secretly met her lover, Mr. Lawrence. After all, whenever she visited, Mr. Lawrence wasn't far behind.
The club was members-only. Shade couldn't enter.
So, following Hamilton's old report, he took up position across the street—beside the mailbox near the Tobesk City Evening News office.
It was a clever spot. Saturday was the busiest day for newspapers—royal proclamations and parliamentary news usually broke then. Crowds gathered outside the office, hoping to get scoops or late-breaking reports.
Shade blended into that crowd.
Mrs. La Soya wouldn't arrive before noon, Hamilton's report said. If he was lucky, he'd spot her soon.
All he needed was to confirm her arrival and departure times. Once noted, the report would be complete.
Shade marveled at how simple this felt. But Hamilton had already done most of the work. He was merely finishing what the dead detective had started.
Standing casually by the mailbox, pretending to await someone, Shade clutched Hamilton's old pocket watch. He watched. He waited.
When Mrs. La Soya's carriage pulled up, he nearly missed her.
But there she was—just like in the black-and-white photo.
Time: 1:23 p.m. Noted.
She was well-dressed, lace trim on her skirts, jeweled hairpins glinting even under the gloomy skies. Her figure was curvy, her makeup heavy, but her beauty was undeniable. She carried a cloth umbrella, stepped elegantly from the carriage, and headed for the club's entrance.
Shade averted his gaze immediately, wary of being noticed.
Then he heard it again.
[Look at her ring.]
The whispering woman's voice, soft yet clear, spoke in his mind.
"What?"
Despite himself, Shade looked.
On Mrs. La Soya's hand—visible as she turned to speak to the club doorman—was a ring. No gemstone. No diamond. Just a small, polished stone. Like a pebble.
Odd.
From across the street, pedestrians blocked his view, and the moment passed quickly.
"What are you trying to tell me? Why focus on the ring?"
No reply.
The voice had gone silent again.
Shade gritted his teeth but didn't let irritation get the better of him.
Suddenly, a voice beside him:
"Excuse me, sir—what time is it?"
Startled, Shade flinched.
Had he been too obvious?
No—it was just someone asking for the time.
A middle-aged man, neatly dressed in a black silk hat, formal suit, and white shirt. Elegant. Polished. A carefully trimmed mustache, sharp blue eyes.
"Ah... One thirty."
Shade hesitated, then showed his pocket watch.
The stranger smiled.
"Thank you. I've a meeting with the newspaper's editor. Thought I might be late."
As if by habit, the gentleman handed over a business card.
Shade, surprised, offered Hamilton's old card in return.
A detective's card.
The man glanced at it.
Bill Schneider. Operator of a private psychological clinic.
Compared to Shade's cheap card, Dr. Schneider's was clearly of higher quality. Fine paper, professional printing.
"If you ever need assistance, feel free to visit."
The doctor smiled, gesturing to the address on the card—located in the city's eastern district.
"My practice is broad."
He met Shade's gaze.
"Including treatment of... schizophrenia."
"What?"
Shade blinked, caught off guard.
Before he could react, Dr. Schneider smoothly shifted the topic:
"By the way, have you considered higher education? Correspondence courses, perhaps?"
Shade's mind spun.
"I... I've no plans to study psychology, doctor."
"Of course."
The doctor chuckled softly, nodding.
"Farewell, Mr. Detective."
With that, Dr. Schneider pocketed Shade's card and headed for the newspaper office.
Left standing there, Shade frowned.
"Correspondence courses...? Why mention schizophrenia...?"
Then it hit him.
The voice in his head.
The whisper.
Schneider had noticed something. Or sensed it.
"You can laugh if you want," Shade muttered to himself, addressing the presence in his mind. "I'll admit your laugh sounds charming. But you're definitely not a symptom of schizophrenia."
He hoped.
No—he was sure. His situation was tied to mysteries. Not madness.
Probably.
Still, why had a stranger—an ordinary doctor, at that—noticed something?
Was the density of extraordinary people in this world higher than he thought? Or was this Dr. Schneider more than he seemed?
Perhaps the doctor had mentioned schizophrenia casually.
Perhaps not.
Either way, Shade carefully pocketed Schneider's business card.
In the end, the commission came first.
He now had the address of the strange psychiatrist. He could visit later—if necessary.
For now, Mrs. La Soya was inside the club.
He had her arrival time.
Once she left, he could complete the report.
And finally, earn his first paycheck in this unfamiliar world.