Clive stirs awake on the narrow bed behind his detective office as the faint chime of a bell rings once, sharp and deliberate, slicing through the quiet of the night.
His eyes snap open, his body instantly alert, because that bell means someone is inside his office.
He slides his hand under the pillow and grips the steam revolver hidden there, its metal cool and familiar against his palm.
He swings his legs off the bed, rises silently, and pads toward the bedroom door with measured steps.
With careful fingers, he opens the door just enough to peer through, holding his breath as he listens.
There is no footstep, no whisper, no scrape of cloth, only the low, constant hiss of steam flowing through the pipes inside the walls.
He opens the door wider and steps into the living room.
The floorboards creak softly beneath his weight as he moves left, passing the closed bathroom door.
Moonlight spills through the kitchen windows ahead, painting pale rectangles across the counter and table.
He scans the kitchen slowly, the revolver steady in his hand.
No one is there.
He steps inside and checks the back door of the building, fingers brushing the iron lock.
The lock is intact.
He turns back toward the living room and stares at the door that leads to his office.
He approaches it and presses his ear against the wood.
Nothing.
No breathing, no shifting, no movement at all.
His thoughts drift to the alarm thread stretched a few inches above the floor inside the office.
Perhaps a mouse chewed through it.
The idea seems more likely than an intruder who leaves no trace and makes no sound.
Still, caution tightens his grip.
He pulls the door open a crack and peers inside.
The office is swallowed by darkness, untouched by moonlight.
His free hand reaches for the switchboard beside the door.
He presses the steam-light switch.
The pipes groan softly as steam rushes through, and the bulb flares to life with a dull yellow glow.
Clive freezes.
Someone is sitting in the guest chair across from his desk.
The figure's head is bowed, arms folded on the tabletop, completely still.
Clive raises the revolver and trains it on the figure, heart pounding.
He steps forward slowly, each footfall controlled.
As he nears the desk, the light reveals the intruder clearly.
It is a teenage boy.
The boy is asleep.
Clive's brows knit in confusion as he lowers the gun slightly but does not put it away.
How did the boy enter a locked building?
How did he bypass the alarm?
And why would he break into an office just to sleep?
As Clive prepares to shake the boy awake, his eyes catch something unfamiliar on the desk.
An envelope.
He does not remember placing any envelope there.
He picks it up and turns it over.
There is no name, no address, no seal.
He tears it open and slides out a stiff piece of paper.
His eyes scan the message.
Solve the boy's case.
As a reward, you will get one thing that you desperately want.
Clive snorts softly and mutters, "What I desperately want?"
He drops the paper onto the desk, dismissing it as a cruel prank.
He reaches toward the boy.
Then his gaze drifts back to the paper.
The sheet has flipped as it landed.
His breath stops.
A symbol is drawn on the reverse.
A pentagon inside an octagon.
Within the pentagon, an alchemy rune.
Clive's body locks in place.
The room fades.
Memory surges forward.
Three years ago.
He returns home late, tired, already planning to sleep.
The front door opens.
The smell hits him first.
Blood.
The living room floor is slick, the walls splattered.
He staggers forward, heart screaming.
His parents lie lifeless in their bed.
His brother and sister are motionless beside them.
His room waits at the end of the hall.
On its wall, painted in blood, the same symbol is drawn.
A pentagon inside an octagon.
An alchemy rune at its core.
At the time, he did not understand it.
Now he does.
Lord of Disaster.
The memory shatters, and Clive gasps, air rushing back into his lungs.
He turns sharply to the boy.
He grabs the boy's shoulders and shakes him.
"Wake up," he snaps.
The boy jolts, eyes flying open in terror.
"Uh—" the boy gasps.
He sees the revolver, sees Clive's face, and recoils.
"Who are you?" the boy blurts.
Clive answers coldly, "Who am I? I should be asking that question, since you are in my office."
The boy stares, confusion washing over his fear.
"In your office?" he whispers.
His face twists.
"I remember," he says weakly.
His eyes fill with tears.
Then he breaks down completely, sobbing as if a dam has burst.
Clive lowers the gun at once and moves awkwardly closer.
He crouches, unsure how to handle grief that mirrors his own.
Slowly, gently, he speaks, offering water, offering silence, offering time.
Between broken breaths, the boy explains.
His elder sister raised him.
She was mother and guardian both.
She is the third victim of the Stitch Killer.
Her body was found in an alley.
Since then, the world has become unbearable.
He wandered.
He searched for answers.
Someone led him here.
Clive listens without interruption.
The pieces align with brutal clarity.
The symbol.
The message.
The boy.
This is no coincidence.
When dawn arrives, pale and grey, Clive prepares breakfast in silence.
The boy eats little.
Afterwards, Clive escorts him home, promising to return.
The boy clings to that promise like a lifeline.
When Clive steps back onto the street, the city feels heavier.
He heads straight for the police station.
The case is no longer distant. It is personal.
Clive steps inside the police lobby and approaches the counter, the smell of ink, oil, and steam clinging to the air.
"Is Detective Simon Moore present?" he asks the patrolman on duty.
The man barely looks up as he replies that Simon has not arrived yet.
Clive nods, turns away, and takes an empty seat near the wall.
He waits.
Men in uniform pass in and out, boots echoing against stone, detectives arguing quietly over files, patrolmen reporting in before heading back onto the streets.
Clive watches them without really seeing them.
His thoughts spiral inward.
Someone sends Daniel to his office.
Someone places an envelope on his desk.
There is no sign of forced entry.
The lock is untouched.
The alarm thread is intact.
Daniel himself does not remember how he leaves his home or how he arrives at Clive's office.
That frightens him more than blood or threats ever could.
This is not a coincidence.
This is my intention.
A voice cuts through his thoughts.
"Clive."
He lifts his head.
Simon is walking toward him, coat half-buttoned, expression surprised but warm.
Clive stands. "Simon."
Simon stops in front of him and smiles. "Long time no see."
"Two months," Clive says. "Since graduation."
Simon nods. "Last I heard, you returned to Fairlock Town, your home."
"Yes," Clive says. "I had some matters to take care of. I came back two weeks ago and opened a detective office."
Simon raises his brows slightly. "So you're a private detective now."
Clive inclines his head.
Simon's tone shifts, cautious. "Then what brings you here?"
Clive glances around the lobby before lowering his voice. "You're one of the lead detectives on the Stitch Killer case, right?"
Simon nods once.
"I'm new," Clive says evenly. "I need work, and I want to help catch the killer."
Simon studies him. "And?"
"Can I read your investigation report?"
Before Simon can answer, a voice barks from across the room.
"Simon, what are you doing here? The third victim's autopsy report just arrived."
Simon turns sharply. "Coming."
He looks back at Clive. "I'll get back to you later."
Clive nods. "Go."
Simon walks away at a brisk pace, disappearing down the corridor.
Clive watches him for a moment, then turns and leaves the station.
Outside, he raises a hand.
A steam carriage rattles to a halt in front of him, valves hissing.
He gives the driver an address in the boiler district and climbs inside.
The carriage rolls forward.
Minutes pass.
Even without looking outside, Clive senses the change.
The air grows heavier.
Hotter.
Humid.
The boiler district announces itself through smell and heat long before it comes into view.
The carriage slows and stops.
Clive pays the fare, steps down, and lifts his gaze.
Across the street stands a textile factory, tall and broad, brick darkened by years of steam and smoke.
The sign bears a simple name.
Smith Textile Works.
This is Robbie Smith's factory.
Carrie Smith's husband.
Clive positions himself where he can see the main entrance without drawing attention and begins his stakeout.
Workers pour out at dusk.
Supervisors leave in small groups.
Steam whistles mark the shift's end.
Robbie Smith eventually emerges, well-dressed, posture straight, face tired but composed.
Clive follows at a careful distance.
Robbie goes home.
No detours.
No secret visits.
Clive repeats the routine the next day.
And the next.
Morning.
Afternoon.
Evening.
The factory.
The exit.
The walk.
The return home.
No signs of infidelity.
No lover.
No hidden second life.
By the third day, Clive is certain.
Carrie Smith's suspicions are unfounded.
But hunger and rent do not care about truth.
As evening falls on the third day, Robbie Smith exits the factory as usual.
Clive follows.
But this time, Robbie does not turn toward home.
He heads east.
The streets grow louder.
Music drifts through the air.
Laughter.
Light spills onto the cobblestone.
Robbie Smith stops beneath a sign adorned with brass trim and painted birds.
The Canary Club.
Clive slows, heart, tightening.
Robbie pauses, straightens his coat, and steps inside.
Clive watches the door close.
He exhales slowly.
At last.
Something has changed.