The carriage wheels clattered against the uneven cobblestones, sending a faint tremor through the wooden frame. Outside, smoke curled lazily from chimneys and mingled with the ever-present fog that clung to the city. The brass streetlamps hissed faintly, casting golden halos through the haze.
Kael Mortty sat stiffly across from Rose, the brim of his black hat pulled low. His coat, though neat, felt heavy on his shoulders—as though it still carried the weight of another man's name.
Rose leaned back casually, her gloved fingers tapping against the windowpane. "You know," she said, her voice lilting with amusement, "most people would be ecstatic after being escorted by me. Yet you sit there looking like a man on his way to the gallows."
Kael tilted his head, watching the foggy street blur past. If only she knew.
"…I've just had a long few days," he said flatly.
She smirked. "Excuses. A true gentleman would've already offered to buy me coffee. Or at least tried to hold my hand."
Kael's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "Then it's fortunate I'm not a gentleman."
Her playful pout lasted only a heartbeat before she laughed, shaking her head.
The carriage jolted to a halt. Outside stood a tall iron gate, its paint peeling, and beyond it loomed the silhouette of a three-story townhouse dusty, cracked, and quiet. The once-proud residence of the Mortty family.
Rose gestured grandly. "Home, sweet home."
Kael stepped out into the fog and inhaled. The air smelled faintly of rust and rain. He stared at the house, at the broken windows and the ivy crawling up its sides. Memories not his, but Kael Mortty's flickered in his mind. Childhood laughter. A family dinner. The warmth of a fireplace. All swallowed now by silence.
Rose's eyes lingered on him, her playful tone softening. "You'll be fine here. It's already been furnished for you."
He gave a small nod. "Thank you."
Her lips curled again, mischief returning. "Well, if you get lonely tonight, you could always invite me over. I don't mind ghost stories."
Kael deadpanned, "I'm more concerned about the smell of mildew."
"Cold as ever," she sighed dramatically, though her eyes glimmered with amusement. With a flick of her coat, she stepped back into the carriage. "Don't die in your sleep, Mortty."
The carriage vanished into the mist, leaving Kael standing alone.
Inside, the air was heavy with dust, but the rooms had indeed been furnished: velvet curtains drawn, a polished oak desk in the study, carpets laid neatly across creaking floors. A small fire had been lit in the hearth, its embers glowing faintly.
Kael wandered from room to room, his gloved fingers brushing against surfaces. "They really went all out," he muttered, half to himself. A noble's house for a prisoner under surveillance. How generous.
He stopped in the study, where a desk awaited him. A quill and ink were laid carefully beside a leather-bound book. He sat, staring at the blank pages.
For a long moment, he hesitated. Then he dipped the quill and began to write.
Day One. New world.
Smells like smoke. People stare like I'm a ghost.
Oh, and apparently, I'm noble blood. Except everyone who should care is dead. Lovely.
His handwriting scratched unevenly across the page. He kept writing, sometimes serious, sometimes absurd, as though venting to a future self. By the time he stopped, the candle beside him had burned halfway down.
Kael sighed, snapping the book shut. "If someone ever reads this, they'll think I went mad on the first day."
He leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling. Sleep tugged at him like an old friend. Eventually, he surrendered.
Morning came with the shrill cries of street hawkers and the distant hiss of steam. Kael dressed carefully: shirt, tie, coat, hat, boots polished just enough to pass. He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror a pale, sharp-eyed young man who looked like he'd bitten into a lemon.
"…Still ugly," he muttered.
Stepping outside, the fog was thinner, revealing crowded streets. He followed the scent of fresh bread until he found a small stall.
"Ah! Sir Mortty!" the baker's wife greeted, flour dusting her apron. Her face lit up in recognition. "You're looking healthier today. Bread as usual?"
Kael blinked. Mortty bought bread often? He forced a polite smile. "Yes. Two loaves."
She wrapped them and leaned closer. "Keep your head up, young master. Times are dark, but the Mortty name still means something."
Kael paid quickly and left before his expression betrayed him. Mortty's name still means something? Not for long.
He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread as he strolled through the streets. The city's bones were iron and smoke, but beneath its grandeur lay cracks: gaunt faces in alleys, beggars huddled near steam vents, soldiers patrolling with weary eyes.
Eventually, the headquarters came into view a blocky stone building bristling with pipes, its windows tinted like watchful eyes. A faint hum of machinery pulsed through its walls.
Kael exhaled, straightened his hat, and pushed the door open.
Inside was a world of smoke and order. Dozens of operatives in long coats stood in rows as John Gary read out assignments in his gravelly voice. Each name carried weight; each mission dripped with risk.
Kael slipped in quietly, the bread still warm in his pocket.
For the first time, he realized: this was no temporary refuge. This was the beginning of his entanglement with powers he barely understood.
And everyone in the room knew it.