Phew, that's finally over. I survived the sèance.
Klein exhaled a long, weary breath. The night air was crisp against his face as he turned toward the apartment building, enjoying the hush of the sleeping city. Each step drew him closer to home—and to the faint promise of peace.
He fished out his keys, found the right one, and turned it in the lock. The door creaked open, spilling the faint crimson of the streetlamps into the dark hall.
The staircase was empty. The cold air brushed against him as he climbed, and a strange, exhilarating feeling welled up inside. It was as if he'd stolen a few extra hours from time itself. That thought made him quicken his pace.
He reached his door, turned the handle—and froze.
A silhouette sat quietly by his desk, face lit by moonlight filtering through the curtains. Reddish-black hair, clear brown eyes, a delicate but stubbornly pretty face.
Melissa Moretti.
"Klein," she said, brows relaxing as curiosity replaced her usual sternness. "Where did you go?"
Before he could speak, she added matter-of-factly, "I got up to use the bathroom and realized you weren't home." Her tone carried that familiar precision of hers, as if she meant to dissect every cause and consequence behind his absence.
Years of practice lying to his parents came to his rescue. Klein gave a wry smile and replied evenly, "Couldn't sleep. Figured instead of tossing around, I might as well do something productive—so I went for a run. Look, I'm sweating!"
He shrugged off his jacket and half-turned to show his back.
Melissa stood, glanced briefly, and frowned in thought before saying softly, "You don't have to push yourself so hard, Klein. I'm sure you'll pass the interview for Tingen University. And even if you don't—well, I mean, if—you can always find something better."
Interview? Klein blinked, suppressing a bitter laugh. I haven't even thought that far…
He simply nodded. "I understand."
He said nothing about Dunn Smith's offer. Not yet. Not until he decided.
Melissa studied him for a few seconds, then suddenly turned away and dashed deeper into the house. She returned carrying something that looked like a turtle cobbled together from gears, rusty scraps, and bits of spring steel.
After winding a torsion spring, she set the little contraption on the desk.
Ka-ka-ka.
Dum-dum-dum.
The "turtle" began to wobble forward in jerky rhythm, hopping and clicking like some mechanical creature full of stubborn life.
"Whenever I feel irritated," Melissa said, her eyes bright with childlike pride, "watching it move always calms me down. It's really effective! Try it, Klein!"
He smiled and indulged her, watching until the clockwork stopped. "You're right," he said. "Simplicity and rhythm do help you relax."
Pointing to it, he asked casually, "Did you make this yourself? When? How come I didn't notice?"
"I used scrap parts from school—and picked up the rest off the streets. Finished it two days ago." Her lips curved upward ever so slightly.
"That's impressive," Klein said sincerely.
As a boy, he could barely assemble a toy car without breaking something.
Melissa tilted her chin, eyes crescenting with quiet satisfaction. "It was nothing."
"Being too humble's a bad habit," he teased. "So, this is a tortoise, right?"
At once the mood in the room dipped. The playful air thinned into something faintly solemn. Melissa's voice, soft and strange, drifted through the dim light.
"It's a puppet."
Klein froze for half a heartbeat, then forced a laugh. "The problem's just the materials—they're too rough."
He quickly changed the subject. "By the way, I don't often see you waking up in the middle of the night. Even to go to the bathroom. You alright?"
Melissa blinked, caught off guard. She opened her mouth to answer—
—and a loud gurgle erupted from her stomach.
"I-I'm heading back to bed!" she blurted, snatched up her "puppet," and fled to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Dinner was too good last night, Klein thought with an amused shake of his head. She probably upset her stomach.
He sat at his desk, exhaling quietly. Outside, the crimson moon slipped from behind the clouds. Dunn Smith's words echoed in his mind.
Becoming a Nighthawk's civilian staff member had its drawbacks.
I'm a transmigrator. The Fool. The initiator of that mysterious gathering. With all those secrets, joining the Church's own Beyonder unit—the people who hunt the supernatural—would be… risky.
But if he joined, he could also protect himself. Mask his other activities under the Nighthawks' umbrella.
Still, formal membership would chain his freedom. He'd need permission to leave Tingen. Every action would be watched. The Nighthawks obeyed orders—no refusal, no excuses.
And then there was the risk of losing control.
He exhaled again, forcing clarity. Keep it simple. I'll make a list of the pros and cons.
If that ritual to boost luck proved anything, it was that he wasn't among the naturally fortunate. Strange events would find him again—it was only a matter of time.
To survive them, he'd need strength. Either as a Beyonder or through the Nighthawks' protection.
He couldn't rely entirely on the Tarot Gathering. Potions weren't the issue—the ingredients were. Where would he even find them? How would he safely concoct them? He couldn't consult Justice and The Hanged Man on every trivial detail. Nor could he continuously request items without giving anything in return. That would break his mystique as The Fool. Not to mention the lack of time, meetings can only last for so long before he's forced to end them.
Besides, any material he sought might trace back to his real identity. 'Online' secrets could turn into real-world trouble.
Joining the Nighthawks, though—it would open doors to knowledge, resources, and a network within the mystic world. He could build connections, accumulate leverage, and feed those gains back into the Gathering, creating a cycle of mutual growth.
Of course, he could try the other path—the hidden societies hunted by the Churches, like the Psychology Alchemists Dunn had mentioned. But that way lay paranoia and danger. He didn't even know how to find them. And if The Hanged Man provided a lead, chasing it might get him killed before he took a single step.
Becoming a civilian staff member, on the other hand, gave him a buffer. A safe disguise.
The inferior hermit hides in the wilderness; the superior hides among the crowd. Perhaps the Nighthawk identity would be the perfect mask.
And one day, if he ever rose high enough—who would suspect that the tribunal's own officer was the leader of a secret organization manipulating events behind the scenes?
By dawn, the crimson moon had faded. Pale gold spilled across the horizon. Klein's decision crystallized with the sunrise.
He would find Dunn Smith today—and join the Nighthawks as civilian staff.
Just then, Melissa shuffled out of her room, hair tousled, holding a yellowed sheet of paper and her toiletries. She blinked at her brother stretching by the desk.
"You didn't sleep?"
"I was thinking things through," he said, smiling.
Melissa nodded thoughtfully. "Whenever I have a problem, I list the pros and cons and compare them. That usually tells me what to do next."
"That's a good habit," he said, chuckling. "I did that too."
Satisfied, she gave a small smile and headed to the bathroom.
After breakfast and seeing her off, Klein allowed himself a short nap. There was no rush—most pubs stayed closed until afternoon.
When the clock struck two, he brushed the dust from his silk hat, smoothed his suit, and polished his boots until they gleamed. He looked every bit the young man going for an interview.
Besik Street was a fair distance, and he didn't want to risk missing "working hours." So he waited at Iron Cross Street for a public carriage.
In Loen, there were two kinds: trackless and track.
The former—ordinary carriages drawn by two horses—could seat around twenty, even using the roof, and stopped anywhere if space allowed.
The latter, operated by the Orbital Carriage Company, ran on rails embedded in the road. The horses pulled along the inner lane while the wheels glided on track grooves, saving effort and allowing for large double-deckers that carried fifty passengers. Fixed routes, fixed stops—efficient but inflexible.
After ten minutes, the sound of metal wheels approached. A double-decker carriage pulled up beside the station.
"To Besik Street," Klein told the driver.
"You'll have to transfer at Champagne Street," the man said. "From there, it's a ten-minute walk."
"That's fine," Klein nodded.
"Four pence—about four kilometers." A young fare collector with a clean, fair face held out his hand.
Klein paid, climbed aboard, and found a seat downstairs. There weren't many passengers—mostly tidy men and women, some in work clothes, quietly reading newspapers. The air was subdued, polite.
He pressed his hat down, closed his eyes, and rested through the ride. Station after station slipped by until he heard the conductor call, "Champagne Street."
After alighting, he followed a few directions and soon arrived at Besik Street. A brownish-yellow hound painted on a sign marked the pub he sought.
Klein pushed open the heavy door.
Noise, heat, and the smell of ale crashed into him at once. Even at this hour, the place was crowded—day laborers seeking work, drunkards killing time, gamblers leaning over tables. Two iron cages dominated the center of the room, sunk partly into the floor.
A murmur ran through the crowd. Cheers, curses, laughter.
Curious, Klein craned his neck.
Inside each cage, a man dumped the contents of a sack—squealing, gray bodies spilled out in a wave.
Rats. Hundreds of them.
The crowd roared as the chains on two dogs were unlatched—one black and white like a husky, the other jet-black and sleek.
"Bet on it, mister?" A short man in a brown beret appeared beside him, gesturing toward the black dog. "Doug's on an eight-win streak!"
"Bet?" Klein blinked, then understood. "Dog-fighting?"
The man chuckled. "We're civilized folk, sir. Those things are illegal now." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "They banned it last year."
"Then what are you betting on?" Klein asked dryly.
"The better hunter," the man said—and just then, the cage erupted in chaos.
The black dog lunged, snapping up a rat in one bite. The black-and-white one hesitated, then began to chase the rodents gleefully like a game.
The crowd roared again.
"Bite! Kill! Doug! Doug!"
Klein's mouth twitched. So this is rat-baiting with dogs…
Betting on which one kills more rats. Maybe even the exact number.
No wonder people were buying live rats on Iron Cross Street… Tingen never disappoints.
He shook his head, amused, and slipped past the gamblers to the bar.
"New face?" the bartender asked, polishing a glass. "Rye beer, a penny. Enmat, two. Southville, four. Or perhaps a pure-malt Lanti?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Wright," Klein said directly.
The bartender gave a low whistle. "Old man, someone's asking for you!"
A groggy voice answered from behind the counter, followed by a bearded old man rubbing his eyes. "Who's looking for me?"
"Mr. Wright," Klein said politely, "I'd like to hire a small mercenary squad for a job."
"A small mercenary squad?" The bartender barked a laugh. "What is this, an adventure novel? Those went out of fashion ages ago."
Wright squinted at him for a moment, then asked, "Who told you about this place?"
"Dunn Smith," Klein replied truthfully.
At once the old man chuckled. "Ah, I see. Well, the squad still exists—just under a new name. You'll find it at No. 36 Zouteland Street, second floor."
"Thank you," Klein said, giving a slight bow before weaving through the crowd toward the exit.
As he reached the door, a murmur rippled through the pub.
"Doug… lost?"
"Defeated…"
Klein smiled faintly, pushed open the door, and stepped back into the cooler air outside.
He asked a passerby for directions, walked several blocks, and soon found the building he sought.
"Thirty, thirty-two, thirty-four…" He climbed the stairwell, turning the corner.
There, on a brass sign, were the words etched neatly in black:
Blackthorn Security Company.