The next morning dawned grey, drizzle clinging to the cobblestones like a bad habit. It was the kind of day that smelled of soot and damp wool — miserable to most, but for Klara Moriarty, it was apparently perfect shopping weather.
"Hold this," she chirped, tossing another bag into Jonas's already overloaded arms.
Jonas staggered, the dozen parcels in his grip threatening to topple him forward into the busy street. He managed to steady himself with an audible grunt, his face blank but his eyes mutinous.
"…Isn't this too much?" he muttered. His voice carried that rough rasp of someone unused to speaking for so long in public, but it was louder than yesterday.
"Not at all!" Klara beamed, humming to herself as she pawed through a rack of coats with all the casual aggression of a wolf among sheep. "You need to be looking spiffy. Can't make future clients think we're sloppy, you know?" She winked, tugging a navy waistcoat free and holding it up to Jonas's narrow frame.
Jonas stared at her, unimpressed, half his face hidden behind the pile of bags. "…You're using the judge's dowry, aren't you?" he said flatly.
The words hit Klara like a thrown brick.
Her face turned crimson as she spun around. "What? No! I'm using the money he paid me. And stop calling it that!" she huffed, snatching a shirt and flinging it into Jonas's face.
He didn't even flinch, just let the fabric slide off the top of the bags while giving her that deadpan stare that had become his signature. Klara marched to the checkout counter before he could say another word.
By the time they left the fifth shop, Jonas looked like a condemned man marching to the gallows, the bags digging red grooves into his fingers. Klara, meanwhile, was practically glowing, humming a little tune under her breath as if this were the grandest adventure of her week.
As they wove through the crowded East Borough streets, Klara suddenly stopped short. Her eyes narrowed.
Across the street, through the drizzle and throng of carriages, she spotted him.
Adrian.
He stood like an iron statue among the crowd, his black coat cutting a sharp line through the grey day. His gaze was fixed ahead, steady, relentless, and even at a distance Klara could feel the shift in the air.
Her breath caught. She leaned toward Jonas. "Hmm. You go on ahead and head home."
Jonas frowned, following her line of sight. When his gaze landed on Adrian, he flinched almost imperceptibly. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he sighed.
"…Okay. Be safe, big sis."
Klara smiled faintly, touched despite herself. She gave his shoulder a squeeze, then turned her eyes back to Adrian.
Jonas walked on, bags dragging at his arms like shackles, his frame small against the flow of the crowd.
Klara, meanwhile, took a deep breath. Then she slipped into the current of pedestrians, her steps light, her eyes never leaving the black-coated figure ahead.
She followed him through the shifting arteries of Backlund's transit system.
Two transfers. One tracked carriage, then a steam metro, then a trackless carriage.
Adrian never looked back. He moved with that unnerving stillness, the way predators moved in nature documentaries — calm, unhurried, certain that their prey couldn't escape.
Klara's pulse quickened, but she kept her distance, always careful to duck behind a newspaper stand or linger at a crossing until the crowd surged enough to mask her presence.
Finally, they arrived at Iron Gate Street, near the massive stone sprawl of Backlund Bridge. The river mist clung thick in the air here, the damp carrying the scent of iron, smoke, and brine.
Adrian stopped.
He stood across the street, his eyes fixed on a particular building.
A bar.
Its name, painted in bold, slightly chipped letters, hung above the door: The Bravehearts.
Klara blinked. "…A bar? Seriously?"
She half expected him to turn around and catch her, but instead, Adrian strode forward.
The bouncer at the door — a mountain of a man, nearly two meters tall, with arms like stacked logs — froze when he saw Adrian approach. His posture straightened instantly, and without hesitation, he stepped aside, opening the door with all the urgency of a soldier saluting a general.
Klara's lips twitched. Oh, this I have to see.
She waited a few beats, then crossed the street herself.
The same bouncer loomed before her, arms folded, his gaze sweeping over her form.
Klara stared right back, raising one brow. Then, without missing a beat, she pushed past him, her shoulder brushing his arm.
The man didn't move. He didn't stop her.
Klara smirked. Hah. Score one for me.
The moment she stepped inside, the world changed.
Heat slammed into her like a wave.
The air was thick with the pungent stench of malt beer, sweat, and cheap tobacco. A wall of sound engulfed her — the roar of men shouting, the bark of dogs, the clang of coins exchanged, the wild laughter of drunks already half gone.
Unsurprisingly, she saw two stages in the middle of the bar. On one, a rat-baiting competition was in full swing — dogs snapping and lunging as tiny grey bodies scattered across the sawdust. On the other, two shirtless boxers paced, their muscles taut, their gloves thudding together in anticipation of the fight to begin.
Klara wrinkled her nose. The aroma of alcohol mixed with the stink of sweat was almost enough to knock her flat.
Lovely. Just lovely. Nothing like the sweet perfume of wet dog and cheap beer to really make a girl feel alive.
She tugged her cap lower, sliding through the mass of bodies toward the bar counter. She kept one hand on her purse and the other free, her instincts sharp despite the din.
"Southville beer," she told the bartender as soon as his eyes flicked her way.
"Five pence," he replied automatically.
Klara counted out the coins with a faint smirk and slid them across the counter. The bartender replaced them with a large wooden cup, the golden liquid foaming at the rim.
She lifted it, taking a cautious swig.
Cold. Bitter at first, fragrant after. The malt flavor burst on her tongue, leaving a slightly sweet aftertaste.
"…Not bad," she muttered, licking her lips.
She lowered the cup, letting the foam settle, and allowed her eyes to wander the room. Searching.
Where was Adrian?
She didn't have to wait long.
"Detective."
The word slid against her ear like a knife.
Klara nearly choked on her beer.
Adrian was suddenly there, right beside her, close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence press against her side. His eyes flicked down her body once, assessing, as though cataloging every thread of her casual clothes.
Her pulse jumped.
"…Adrian." She forced her voice level, though her cheeks warmed.
He didn't smile. He never did. But his gaze lingered, sharp as ever, the faint gleam of his glasslike eye catching the low light of the bar.
Klara set her cup down a little too hard. "…Didn't expect to find you here."
"Neither did I," Adrian said at last, voice quiet enough to slip beneath the roar of the bar yet sharp enough to cut through it. He sighed, tugging at the leather gloves on his hands with deliberate precision, as if adjusting them would anchor him. His eyes flicked down, scanning her once. "Especially with those clothes."
Klara blinked. Then instinctively looked down at herself.
She was dressed for the streets, not her office: a simple cream blouse tucked into a high-waisted navy skirt that brushed just below her knees, a plain brown jacket pulled snug over her shoulders. Her hair was tied into a loose bun at the back of her head, though a few strands had already worked themselves free to frame her face from the damp air outside. She wore scuffed leather shoes, the kind that had seen too much pavement, and her old flat cap hung askew like she'd jammed it on as an afterthought.
Not exactly glamorous.
"…Fair enough," Klara pouted, puffing out her cheeks as she lifted her glass for another sip. "Didn't know you had a sense of fashion critique tucked somewhere under that coat of yours."
Adrian didn't rise to the jab. He just stood there, shoulders straight, the faint gleam of his glasslike eyes catching the bar's low lights. The shadows deepened the lines of his face, making him look carved from stone, yet what unsettled Klara more was the lack of attention he drew.
No one glanced at him.
Not the drunk men cheering at the rat-baiting. Not the sweaty boxers bouncing on the stage. Not even the bartender — who, after setting Klara's drink earlier, seemed to have trained his gaze everywhere but on Adrian.
She tapped her glass, staring up at him. So much for being handsome. Guess he has it rough too.
If a plain girl like her — average, forgettable, nothing to write home about — could catch a few lingering stares in a place like this, then Adrian should've been drowning in them. He was tall, striking, unnerving. A man who looked like he could fold steel beams with his bare hands. Yet he was invisible.
Or worse. Intentionally unseen.
Adrian finally lowered himself onto the stool beside her. He didn't sit so much as attempted to — legs spread too wide, hands braced on his knees, posture too stiff for a bar stool. He looked like a soldier forced into a child's chair, every muscle taut with discomfort.
"You tailed me here?" he asked, his tone more curious than accusing.
Klara's lips twitched into a smirk. She swirled the foam in her cup. "I was. Never thought I'd see you of all people drink, after all."
"I don't drink."
Her smirk widened. "…Whattt. Then why'd you come to a bar?" She rested her chin on the palm of her hand, eyes flat, unimpressed. "What's next, you'll tell me you don't dance either?"
Adrian didn't answer that. Instead, the bartender — still carefully not looking at him — slid a glass of beer across the counter. The golden liquid sloshed as it stopped just in front of Adrian's gloved hand.
He stared at it.
Klara raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the glass with hers as if to say, Well? Go on.
Adrian sighed. Then, with visible reluctance, reached out and wrapped his fingers around the cup. "I was working," he said at last.
"Work?"
"Yes. Work." He lifted the cup as though it weighed more than it should.
Klara hummed, leaning on her elbow. "Hmm. I'm guessing it went badly? Place looks calm enough. No gunfire, no panicked screams, no heads rolling." She gestured lazily at the chaos around them, where men were laughing and shouting with their mugs in the air.
Adrian shook his head. "Not that kind of work. I swung by to collect the records of who bought guns from Kalinin."
That made Klara blink. Her brows shot up. "…An arms dealer?"
"Yes."
"And you haven't judged him?"
Adrian's eyes slid toward the foam on his beer. "The people need their protection. Better they get it from a place I know."
Klara blinked again, then snorted softly. That's… an answer, I suppose.
He finally took a sip of his beer. His lips tightened at the bitterness, the faintest grimace crossing his usually unreadable face. He drank again anyway, his throat bobbing.
"…Don't like beer?" Klara teased, sipping from her own cup.
"I'm a lightweight," Adrian admitted, still watching the liquid as if it might betray him. "I don't particularly hate it. But Ronan told me never to drink." His gaze flicked to her, heavy and deliberate, as though silently signaling: That's your cue to stop me.
Klara, of course, ignored him.
Instead, she grinned and raised her glass toward his. "I think we deserve it. Don't you?"
Her cup clinked lightly against his.
Then she tipped her head back and emptied her glass in one go, foam streaking the rim as she slammed it back on the counter with a satisfied sigh.
Adrian exhaled through his nose, resigned. He lifted his cup more slowly, taking measured sips. But his cheeks were already tinged pink — ridiculous, considering he hadn't even finished half.
Klara's grin widened. Perfect. Maybe now I can get some info I want.
She clapped him on the back, making him stiffen, and flagged the bartender down.
"Two more!" she called cheerfully.
The bartender, still not looking at Adrian, nodded and slid two fresh glasses onto the counter without a word.
Klara shoved one toward Adrian, eyes sparkling. "Come on, don't leave me hanging."
Adrian stared at the glass, jaw tight. His gloved fingers drummed once against the counter. Then, slowly, he pulled it closer.
Klara hid her satisfaction behind another sip, though her smirk betrayed her.
The Bravehearts bar was still a storm of noise. Fists smacked against flesh on the boxing stage, drunken men bellowed wagers, and dogs barked themselves hoarse at the rat-baiting pit. The air reeked of sweat and beer, stale smoke curling toward the rafters.
But in the corner, at the polished stretch of the bar counter, it was unnervingly… quiet.
Every stool to their left and right was empty. The men who had been shoulder to shoulder, elbows clinking mugs, had slowly migrated to the far end of the counter. Even the bartender — who had once been working directly in front of them — was now comfortably stationed at the other side of the room, busy polishing the same glass for the tenth time.
Which left Klara.
And the very large, very imposing, very drunk judge slumped heavily against the bar beside her.
Klara smirked faintly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she turned to him. Adrian's posture was a mess — shoulders hunched, head hanging slightly forward, one large hand still braced against his knee like he needed to hold himself together.
She lifted her fingers and lightly tapped his cheek.
The man grunted, head shifting toward her touch. His eyes — normally one human, one glasslike — were both silver now, a metallic gleam swirling unnaturally where his pupils should have been.
Wow, Klara thought flatly. Not much of a change. I was expecting yellow or red or something. Nope. Just… shinier eyes.
She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips. "So, Adrian," she purred, dragging his name out like velvet. "I want to get to know you more. Is that fine?"
The judge of Backlund groaned faintly, dragging one hand up to rub at his temple. He sat up straighter with effort, blinked twice, then muttered: "…Go ahead."
Klara blinked at him. Then blinked again.
Her gaze darted to the bar counter. Two empty glasses sat there. Just two. And the second wasn't even finished, foam still clinging stubbornly to the rim.
"…Wow," she whispered under her breath, her smirk faltering slightly. He didn't even finish the second one …below all that fortress stone is something softer than I thought. Fragile, even.
She cleared her throat and smoothed her blouse, trying to look serious. Time to get to work.
"Alright then." She tapped her finger against the counter in a steady rhythm, slipping into interrogation mode. "Let's start simple. How long have you been living in Backlund?"
"Since I was born," Adrian mumbled. His voice was low, but steady.
Klara nodded, pretending to jot down mental notes. "Alright. Easy enough. Next—how old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
Her brows lifted slightly. Huh. Younger than I thought. She glanced at the flush still lingering in his cheeks. "…Figures. Can't hold his beer 'cause he hasn't grown into it yet."
Adrian tilted his head at her muttering, but said nothing.
"Pathway?" Klara asked next, voice cautious now.
Adrian's lips parted. His words came out slower, heavier. "…The Mirror."
Her eyes sharpened.
He reached into his coat pocket then, pulling free a familiar golden glint. A pocket watch. Its surface gleamed faintly under the bar's low lights.
Klara's breath caught in recognition. She tugged her own watch from her jacket pocket, holding it up between two fingers with a little flourish. "Well, look at that. We've got the same pair."
Adrian didn't smile. He just stared at her watch, his gaze locked on it for a long moment before he finally whispered, "…This is the last thing I have that reminds me of my family."
His voice was quieter now. Quieter than she'd ever heard it.
He closed the watch with a soft click and slipped it back into his pocket.
Klara blinked, her smirk faltering. For a moment, her sharp retort caught in her throat. She softened despite herself, a sigh brushing through her mind. …You too, big guy?
She shook her head quickly, forcing her mask back on. This wasn't the time for sympathy. She had questions. And the drunk judge was answering them.
"…Adrian," she started again, careful now. "What kind of abilities do you have?"
She half-expected silence. Half-expected him to catch himself, to snap back into that cold, untouchable state he always wore.
But Adrian exhaled. And answered.
"I can tell whether or not a person is lying," he said first. His silver eyes flicked toward her, one finger lifting to point at them. "See through anything that can reflect. And create illusions… reflections of myself, or of others, for a set period of time."
Klara's lips pressed into a thin line. She counted silently. One. Two. Three.
She opened her mouth to push further, but Adrian's voice cut across hers.
"And…" His tone deepened, the silver in his gaze gleaming brighter. "…Force anyone to face the absolute truth."
Klara stilled.
Adrian's eyes narrowed slightly, as though reliving the weight of it. "When looking into a mirror I conjure, someone's hidden self is revealed. Fear, guilt, secrets. Everything they keep buried. They're forced to confront it."
Klara's hand tightened around her glass. A chill snaked down her spine despite the bar's heat.
That… was terrifying. Not the flashy kind of terrifying — no flames, no lightning. Just the raw, suffocating inevitability of truth.
Her voice shook before she caught herself. "…Adrian. Are you…"
"Yes, Sherlock," he interrupted, his lips quirking faintly at the title, though there was no warmth in it. His silver eyes flared, catching the dim light like two panes of glass polished to perfection.
"I am a Truthbearer," he whispered. His words thrummed in her chest like a gavel's strike. "The Sequence Six of the Mirror."
Klara couldn't breathe for a second.
Truthbearer.
…this man never talks. And he just gave me the sharpest blade to slit his throat with. But I can't even use it.
It wasn't just the name. It was what it implied — what she'd just heard him describe. To drag a person's soul into the open, rip away every mask, every lie, every shield, until nothing was left but their rawest self.
She thought back to Jonas. The way the boy had looked when Adrian had dragged him into her home. Shaken, hollow-eyed, trembling in his skin.
He made him face it, she realized, throat dry. The mirror.
Her chest tightened with anger. Fear. Pity. She didn't know which.
She forced herself to laugh, brittle and too loud, trying to shake it off. "Wow. And here I thought you just scowled people into confessing."
""…Most people can't survive the truth, Detective.." He said while staring at her. Not through her. Into her. His silver gaze reflected her face back at her in miniature, warped on a pane of living glass.
Klara swallowed hard and forced her smirk wider, though her pulse hammered in her ears.
If he turned that mirror on me
Would I be safe?