"Melissa, could you not rub it in…" Klein muttered inwardly, pressing his temples as a dull ache pulsed behind his eyes.
The gaps in his memory weren't large, but they weren't trivial either. The interview was only two days away—how was he supposed to make up for what he'd forgotten?
And after the strange, unexplainable events of the past few days, who could possibly focus on studying?
He gave Melissa a half-hearted reply and pulled a few books toward him, pretending to review his notes. She didn't comment, just dragged a chair to his side and settled in under the glow of the gas lamp, her pen scratching softly against the paper.
The little apartment fell into a companionable quiet. The steady rhythm of their work, the faint hiss of the lamp—it all felt oddly peaceful.
When the clock neared eleven, the siblings exchanged their goodnights and turned in.
Knock.
Knock. Knock.
A pounding on the door tore Klein out of sleep.
He blinked, disoriented, squinting toward the faint glow of dawn seeping through the window.
"Who is it?" he mumbled, voice hoarse.
What time was it already? Why hadn't Melissa woken him?
"It's me—Dunn Smith," came a deep voice from the hall.
Dunn Smith? The name didn't ring a bell for a moment. Still half-asleep, Klein swung his legs over the bed, rubbed his face, and shuffled to the door.
When he opened it, the gray-eyed police inspector from yesterday stood on the threshold.
Klein's fatigue evaporated at once. "Officer… is something wrong?"
Dunn's face was grave. "We've found a carriage driver who testified that he took you to Mr. Welch's residence on the twenty-seventh—the very day Mr. Welch and Miss Naya died. He also claims Mr. Welch paid your fare."
Klein froze. Oddly, he felt no fear, no guilt. Just confusion.
Because he wasn't lying—at least, not entirely.
On June twenty-seventh, the previous Klein had indeed gone to Welch's place. And that night, he'd returned home… and killed himself. The same way Welch and Naya had.
Forcing a wry smile, he said, "That's… hardly enough evidence to link me to their deaths, is it? Truthfully, I'm just as curious about what happened to my friends. I want to know too. But… I can't remember. I've forgotten almost everything I did that day. Honestly, I had to rely on my old journal entries to even guess that I visited Welch's place."
Dunn's gray eyes lingered on him. "You have remarkable composure," he said softly—not with praise, nor mockery.
Klein met his gaze. "You can tell I'm being sincere."
At least, partly.
Dunn didn't respond right away. His gaze swept over the small apartment before he finally said, in a tone that was almost casual, "Mr. Welch was missing a revolver. I'm guessing… I'll find it here, won't I?"
Ah. So that's where the gun came from.
Klein sighed inwardly. A decision formed in his mind almost instantly.
He raised his hands halfway and stepped back from the door, motioning toward the bunk bed.
"Behind the bedboard," he said evenly.
He didn't specify the lower bunk—no need. No one hides something on top of the bedboard unless they want it seen.
Dunn's lips twitched slightly. "Nothing else you'd like to add?"
Klein hesitated only a moment. "Actually… yes."
He drew a steadying breath. "Last night, I woke up at my desk. There was a revolver beside me… and a bullet lodged in the corner of the room. It looked as though I'd tried to… well. You can guess. But I must've hesitated—or perhaps I don't know how to handle a gun properly. Either way, it didn't go as planned. I'm still alive.
"After that, I lost some memories. Including whatever happened on the twenty-seventh." He paused. "I'm not lying, Officer. I really can't remember."
He spoke with practiced calm, skirting the impossible truth. He said nothing of transmigration, of the "gathering," of the bullet that had truly pierced his head.
To anyone else, his words sounded straightforward. But each phrase was a careful half-truth—a mask stitched together from sincerity and omission.
Dunn listened without interrupting. When Klein finished, the inspector nodded slowly. "That fits the pattern. Similar cases have had… hidden logic. I still can't fathom how you survived."
Klein let out a faint, relieved laugh. "Neither can I. But I'm glad you believe me."
Dunn's eyes flicked up again. "But it's not enough that I believe you. You're still the prime suspect. An expert will have to confirm that your amnesia is genuine—and that you're not connected to their deaths."
His tone hardened slightly. "Mr. Klein, I need you to come with me to the station. It should only take two or three days, assuming everything checks out."
Klein's stomach dropped. "The expert… is here already?"
"She arrived earlier than expected." Dunn stepped aside, gesturing politely for him to follow.
Klein forced a smile. "Allow me to leave a note first."
Benson was still away, and Melissa would panic if she came home to find him gone. A note was the least he could do.
"Go ahead," Dunn said, indifferent.
Klein sat at his desk, pen poised, thoughts racing.
He didn't want to meet this "expert." Not when he carried such an impossible secret. In a world where the Seven Churches ruled, and Emperor Roselle—the rumored first transmigrator—had been assassinated, people like him weren't interviewed. They were investigated.
And without a weapon, without combat training, without powers—what could he do? Dunn had backup waiting outside. If they drew their guns, it'd be over in an instant.
He swallowed. "One step at a time," he whispered, scribbling the note.
He pocketed his keys and followed Dunn out into the corridor.
Four uniformed officers flanked them, their checkered coats stark in the gaslight. Every movement radiated tension.
Their boots thudded softly against the creaking wood as they descended the stairs.
Outside, a black carriage waited. A silver emblem gleamed faintly on its side: two crossed swords beneath a crown. The street around them buzzed with life—vendors calling, horses snorting, wheels clattering.
"Get in," Dunn said, nodding toward the open door.
Klein took one step forward—
A shout broke out nearby. An oyster seller had grabbed a man by the collar, accusing him of theft. The struggle spooked a pair of horses, and chaos rippled down the street.
A chance!
Klein didn't think. He ducked his head and bolted, weaving through the startled crowd, shoving, dodging, running.
If he could reach the river, he could escape the city by boat—head to Backlund, vanish in the crowds. Or maybe take the train east to Enmat Harbor, board a ship for Pritz, and from there, to safety.
Heart hammering, he tore around a corner onto Iron Cross Street. A row of carriages waited for hire.
"To the outer pier!" he shouted, leaping onto the nearest one.
He'd planned it out already—let the police chase the wrong trail, then slip away unnoticed. Once the carriage was far enough, he'd jump off and disappear.
"Alright then," the driver grunted, snapping the reins.
Clop, clop, clop. The city blurred past.
But as the minutes passed, Klein noticed the scenery shift. The streets weren't leading toward the docks.
"Wait—where are we going?" he demanded.
The driver didn't turn around. His voice was flat. "To Welch's place."
Klein's blood ran cold.
The driver turned slowly, revealing a pair of cold gray eyes.
Dunn Smith's eyes.
"You—!" Klein's words caught in his throat.
The world tilted, the colors bleeding together—
And he sat up in bed, gasping.
Moonlight, crimson and cold, spilled across the room. His skin was slick with sweat. His breath came fast, ragged.
"…A dream," he muttered. "Just a nightmare…"
He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, then exhaled. "It felt so real."
The clock read just past two. Still shaking, he rose quietly, planning to wash his face.
The corridor was silent, the air heavy with sleep. Pale red moonlight filtered through the windows as he padded softly toward the washroom.
Then he stopped.
At the far end of the hallway, a figure stood motionless before the window.
A long black coat draped from his shoulders—shorter than an overcoat, longer than a jacket.
Half-shrouded in shadow, the man slowly turned.
Gray eyes. Cold and fathomless.
Dunn Smith.